


Laying Down Bricks

by dahrklee



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, M/M, Soulmate AU, gratuitous non-understanding of military field units, i kind of shot myself in the foot with this, introspective?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 20:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahrklee/pseuds/dahrklee
Summary: She sighed and shook her head, a small look like pity covering her face. "I am aware of the significance of Captain America to Americans, Barnes. But he has been compromised. SHIELD can't let a super soldier loose with someone else pulling his strings." She gestured with her gun.OR, another soulmate AU. Bucky gets recruited by SHIELD to find the kidnapped body of Captain America. He's stalked by a mysterious man, gets blown up a bit, and is maybe a bit too cavalier.Captain America Big Bang 2018 entry





	Laying Down Bricks

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my two lovely artists for making some art for my story, [Kelsey_Fantasy ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelsey_Fantasy) and [koreanrage](is%20koreanrage.tumblr.com).
> 
> The second piece of art, the mixed media, is by Kelsey_Fantasy. The white and grey drawings are by koreanrage.

 

The very first vivid memory Bucky has of his childhood starts with him crying on the playground. He remembers his face pressed tightly into his drawn up legs, his knobby knees peeking through the freshly made holes in his new jeans from when Deke Morris had shoved him on the playground. The chorus of laughter from the other kids as Deke called him Bucky the Barnacle had made the whole thing harder to bear.

He remembers he’d made one friend that day, that year, (his best friend) and it was the only friend he’d ever need or ever want. The voice came wispily, like it was floating on the wind from a distance, but when Bucky raised his head, scrubbing the tears from his eyes and cheeks, he saw the boy just there, tucked tight to Bucky’s side. There was no pressure against his body and Bucky remembers his first thought that this boy was a ghost and he should be scared. But he wasn’t. He liked the boy’s face, with its fading shiner in the right eye and the scabbed bottom lip.

When their eyes met, the boy smiled, eyes dancing like blue fire in a pale face. Later, older and wiser, Bucky would cite hyperbole, but five year old him swore up and down to his ma that the boy’s hair shone like gold in the sun.

The boy flopped onto his bottom, still pressed like a second skin to Bucky’s side - and still no touch that Bucky could feel. He spoke again. The sound of his voice got louder, but only just. Bucky squinted like he’d seen his uncle Harold do when he forgot to turn his hearing aid up and watched the boy’s lips carefully. It didn’t particularly help.

His name came like leaves rustling, hissing quietly along Bucky’s ears. “Steve.” A tiny hand, smaller and thinner than even Bucky’s - sparking the first of many concerns Bucky would have throughout their lives - was thrust assuredly forward. Bucky had taken the hand gently, the bones reminding him of the baby bird he’d found on the pavement outside his house one day, and shook once as he introduced himself, before Steve’s hand slipped through Bucky’s fingers like smoke. (The baby bird had died and that fear stuck to Bucky’s heart until the end).

His tears had been forgotten with the appearance of what his aunt Prudence called ‘that fae child’ (a description Steve took offence to when told - Bucky couldn’t stop laughing at his ruffled feathers), but the sting of the taunts and the jeers of his peers didn’t disappear completely until Steve finally found his voice.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ scared on the first day of school. That’s what my ma says. She says huggin’ her when I’m unsure of anythin’ is…” Steve twisted his lips and wrinkled his nose as he tried to remember her exact words, and finally finished with, “‘a healthy display of self-awareness.’” He said it slowly, like he was unsure if he got the right words or if he was unsure of the message. Bucky had giggled. Steve had grinned. “She’s a nurse and the smartest person in the world.” He shoved Bucky’s shoulder lightly and there, the slightest bit of pressure, as he finished, “ And don’t you forget it.” (Steve’s sainted mama was the subject of many talks with his own ma. Winifred Barnes often teased her husband that she’d found her true soulmate).

 

 

 

Bucky had later learned, from his ecstatic family members, that he was one of the lucky few who got to know their soulmate before actually, physically meeting. It was called gleaning, what he and Steve had. And they thought it was wonderful. But he was 30 years old today and he didn’t want to glean. Not anymore.

“Have you found anything, Becca? Ma? Pa?”

The two women shook their heads as they clicked frantically on their laptops. George frowned before firmly closing the lid of his. He opened his mouth on a deep breath and Bucky tensed. His pa didn’t have much to say on Bucky’s soul bond that could be termed ‘happy’. (Steve’s fragile health had always put George Barnes firmly in the camp that Bucky’s gleanings were merely echoes and that Steve was long dead, not that he was ever glad to voice the thought).

“If you’re sure the silhouette of downtown New York is a picture drawn by Steve instead of his location, like Becca said, perhaps we’d do better scouring Brooklyn itself for the vantage point instead of Googling.”

The tension fled from Bucky’s body like water sluicing off a duck and he grinned, fingers unconsciously caressing the soulmark on his left side. It spanned the entirety of his torso, from under the armpit to his hip bone, but never ventured onto his back or chest and abdomen. The black silhouette drawing was rendered with a sure hand, buildings outlined with care and only a little shading here and there.

His parents had been afraid that when it was filled out, he’d have a black splotch all across his side. Bucky wouldn’t have cared, but he had to admit, the minimalist outline was quite striking. In the bottom corner of the drawing, right under his armpit toward his back, were three letters, his soulmate’s initials. S and R were the only legible ones. His ma lamented that had they been able to discern the middle, they’d have found Steve by now. As it was, there were hundreds of Steve R’s who were artists in New York alone.  

Winnie sniffed and side-eyed her husband. “And how will that help?”

George rolled his eyes and got a scowl for his trouble. “Maybe Steve will be out and about and recognize Bucky. Or Bucky will spot Steve. He’d promised not to move. But dear God, why in all that is holy, gleaning can’t give names and specific addresses I’ll never know and forever hold a grudge against. You should have found him by now, son!”

“Pa, it’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m worried that boy has succumbed to his ailments, modern medicine be damned.”

Becca closed her laptop and hugged it to her chest, her own worry barely concealed, as Winnie abandoned the table for her husband’s side, hands sliding consolingly along his shoulders. “You know echoes haven’t been proven to be real, George. Gleaning can’t happen if one half is dead.”

Silence fell for a moment as Winnie comforted her husband before she took a deep breath and said, “Well, I think we’ve spent long enough on this project for the moment-”

“Ma!”

“And it’s time for us to go out and celebrate your birthday. You’re lucky enough to be on leave for it this year, Bucky, and I don’t want it to be spent inside, moping about.” Bucky opened his mouth to protest yet again, but Winnie bulldozed over him. “Yes, you’ve gone longer than most do without finding your soulmate, but your connection to Steve has always been quite unique. I have the feeling you’ll find him when he most needs you to. No arguing!”

Bucky sat back down from his half-stand and snapped his mouth shut. He clenched his hands over his elbows and nodded once, breathing heavily.

“Well, this has got to be your best birthday yet, Bucky!”

“Rebecca Louise!”

* * *

Despite the night’s ban on searching for Steve, Bucky had to admit he was having a good time. It wasn’t anything special, just walking around Prospect Park, noshing on hot dogs and ice cream from the vendors and listening to the distant sound of music from the outdoor concert, and spending time with his parents and sister. He loved being a Ranger and he didn’t think he’d retire for quite some time, so these moments were precious.

The night was balmy and Bucky was thankful he’d forgone one of his more formal outfits. He eyed himself in the window front, hands in pockets, as he took in his birthday gifts with a pleased smile. The cream popover short sleeve shirt his ma had bought him had two navy stripes either side of the square button neckline that brought out the blue in his eyes. He wore the new gray Newsboy hat his sister had gifted him with, which matched his closely tailored gray slacks perfectly. On his feet were the navy and gray Spectators his pa had got him. All in all, he was feeling quite spiffy. (A word Bucky had, quite by accident, adopted from Steve. He was always calling Bucky spiffy).

Becca jabbed him in the side sharply and Bucky flinched away from the window. “You’re so vain. And yes, that song is totally about you.”

Bucky poked his tongue out and shoulder checked Becca, eliciting a joyous laugh. Chuckling, he threw his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I can’t help that I’d rather look at my own fashion than the degenerates’ around here.”

Becca snorted and pinched his hip. “You look like a reject from a 1940s period movie. You were hipster before hipster was cool!” Her smile was knowing, as the insult hit home.

Bucky wrinkled his nose distastefully. “Hipsters are not cool. They’re so pretentious they don’t even realize their individuality is mass produced.” Becca cackled. “I’m retro. No skinny jeans, long hair, snake scarves, or irony here, thank you very much!”

His ma’s laughter floated up from behind them and Bucky and Becca turned, eyes popping wide in glee at the absolutely gigantic cotton candy their pa was holding. Lurching forward and snagging a large handful, Bucky yelled, “Birthday boy first!”

“Pig!” Becca shrieked. “Ma! Tell him his fashion sense is so grandpa!”

George chuckled as he shoveled some sugar into his mouth. Winnie sighed. “He’s quite dapper, Becca. And you can blame great aunt Prudence.”

A sly look crossed Becca’s face and she jabbed Bucky again. He rubbed his side, scowling and mumbling about career ending injuries as his sister announced triumphantly, “I say it’s more Steve’s to blame! What is it they say? The longer you’re together, the more you start to look alike?”

Bucky growled and glared as his family burst into laughter, then gave it up as a bad job and joined in. Becca continued, “I think we’re looking in the wrong places for him, Bucky. Should we turn our focus to _Oliver Twist_?”

Bucky punched her in the shoulder, slightly harder than necessary, and grinned as she pouted. “That’s about a century too early for my style, there, Becs.”

They finished the night off with a visit to the park’s zoo, and then back home, to Cobble Hill. The 20 minute subway ride back home was quiet and Bucky’s worries over Steve resurfaced. As great as the outing had been, a bittersweet pall descended as his mind whirred. He hadn’t seen Steve in weeks and that usually meant he was sick enough to be hospitalized.

For a brief moment, he worried that enlisting might have been a bad idea. He was good at his job, great even, and he liked that he got to save people, but it gave him little time to search for Steve. He’d offered, once, not to enlist. Steve had been furious. A calling was a calling, he always said, and not even a soulmate should get in the way of that.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when the train came to a screeching halt and his ma pinched his bicep. Their station was up. Winnie hugged his waist as he stood, sighing with exhaustion and mental fatigue. She murmured lightly, “You’ll find him. It’s just a matter of time.”

Time. Would that they had more of it. Bucky was starting to suspect that the clock was running out.

* * *

Bucky was six, just a year after meeting Steve, when he realized that time was not on their side. He was ready for his first day of first grade and, having been transferred to a private school, he didn't have to worry about any more fights with Deke Morris, always goaded on as he was by Steve's sense of justice and fair play. Steve had always mocked the teachers who said not to fight back when a bully pushes you around, a sentiment that had endeared Steve to Bucky's pa, even if his ma just rolled her eyes and said Steve was a troublemaker. The amusement and fondness in her voice was always her betrayal, though. Bucky never knew why she bothered to obfuscate.

He was pulling on his jacket in front of his wall mirror when it disappeared. He blinked at the plain plank wood wall, splintered and weathered, now in front of him, unsure of what to do. Behind him, a wet, hacking cough sounded. Bucky tripped as he twirled around, eyes wide. They landed on a fluffy mound of blankets with a small, pinched face sticking out.

"Steve!" Bucky dropped his backpack and ran to the bed, jacket half off and flapping behind him. Smile wide across his face, Bucky launched himself onto the bed. "My first gleaning! And I can see everything! It's so awesome!" Then he smacked a kiss onto Steve's barely visible forehead.

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky wiped off the sweat and grime that had ransferred to his lips, and then eyed Steve closer. He was pale and damp, his hair more lifeless than Bucky'd ever seen it. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow. His mouth, valiantly trying to smile, was shiny with spit.

A frisson of fear zinged through Bucky's body. "Steve?" His voice came out soft, warbling uncertainly.

"Holy cow, Buck, it's neat, ain't it?" Steve's voice was scratchy and thin and with every breath he took, Bucky could hear an ominous rattle.

"Stevie? What's wrong?"

Steve scrunched his nose stubbornly. "Nothin'."

A click from behind alerted Bucky to the fact that someone was opening the door. He turned just far enough to see, but kept most of his body toward Steve, his hands clenching and unclenching nervously in the blankets. It was a woman, small and birdlike, not especially beautiful like Bucky's ma, but somehow compelling anyway. She had the same golden blonde hair that Steve had and the same slim bone structure and Bucky new this was Sarah.

Sarah carried a white wooden tray stacked with two bowls and a teacup, with a spoon and a small tea towel sitting at the side. She shuffled in, her eyes red, her face haggard and her shoulders slumped. But there was a fierce determination that she exuded, much like Bucky's own ma when Bucky or his sister got ill.

Bucky turned back to Steve and patted where he thought Steve's hand was reassuringly, like his pa did, and stated, "Your ma's gotcha, Stevie. You'll be fine." He nodded decisively and smiled.

Steve smiled back and his eyes beamed, the only part of him that wasn't dull with sickness.

"Here we are, love. Chicken soup and some peppermint tea. Let's sit you up." Sarah's voice was soft and lilting and it occurred to Bucky that this must be an Irish accent. He loved it.

He turned to smile at Steve and said, "You oughta get one of those accents, Steve."

Steve giggled lightly, which set off a series of coughs that doubled up his small body. Bucky gasped and tried to soothe him, but he didn't know what to do. Sarah reached Steve and sat him up, then pushed him forward, rubbing his back. She crooned nonsensical words (Irish Gaelic, he'd later learn) as Steve coughed it out. When the fit was over, Sarah wiped Steve's mouth with a cloth. When she pulled it away, Bucky's heart froze. There was a bit of blood left behind.

As Sarah lowered Steve to the pillows she'd fluffed to keep him upright, Steve looked dead on into Bucky's eyes. "S'okay. I'll be fine. Ma, tell Bucky I'll be fine."

Sarah paused a moment, her hands settling on the blankets at Steve's lap. A soft, worried smile graced her lips. She turned her head, eyes darting around the air near the bed, never really landing on Bucky.

"It's all right, Bucky. He should be fine soon." Her hands resumed their task as she coaxed Steve to stay still, and then as they picked up the soup and spooned it into Steve's mouth.

Her words sounded, to Bucky, like a lie, too high and sweet to mean anything real. He'd seen his own ma tell a lie to Becca once, to make her feel better. She'd had the same tone. Bucky's bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. He looked into Steve's eyes, eyes that were determinedly looking over Bucky's left shoulder.

Softly, voice laden with fear, Bucky said, "You're not all right, are ya?"

Steve looked down and sipped his soup.         

* * *

Sleep came, but it didn't stay, and Bucky stared bleakly at the ceiling. His birthday had been and gone, and he was returning to duty in a few days. Nothing but silence came where Steve should be, teasing him about being an old man now and consciously ignoring the very weird fact that Bucky seemed to be growing older faster, while Steve was still just 23. Facts like that, the silences, Steve's frail health, the sundry odd things Bucky's noticed when he's the one appearing to Steve and not the other way around - sometimes he thinks he's broken, that his soulmark isn't attached to anyone else's, that he's going crazy.

A picture of Steve's face flashed through his mind, how he'd look if Bucky ever said he didn't belong to anyone, anguish deep and slicing. Regret and remorse settled over Bucky like a blanket and he took a deep breath. A hand's light brush across the mark on his side helped to settle Bucky's mind. Worry still sat prominently at the forefront of his mind, but any doubts of who he and Steve are to each other vanish like fog on a sunny morning.  

* * *

He'd managed to drag Becca out to Brooklyn Heights Promenade the day before his leave was up, to scour the walk and accost the street artists in search of Steve.

"I didn't accost him, Becca!"

His sister's laughter rang out as they hurried away from the scene. "He was small, blonde, and an artist. I'd say running up to him shrieking, 'Steve! Steve!' and grabbing him by the wrist was accosting."

Bucky's face heated as he hugged himself tighter and ducked his head, mumbling to himself. "At least he understood when I explained it to him."

Becca chuckled once more as she wiggled her arm into Bucky's, pulling him out of his hunch. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked slowly down the boardwalk. The sun was setting, lighting up the Manhattan skyline like fire. It would have been wondrous if Steve had shown up for Bucky's birthday. He always did.

He was so deep into his thoughts and worries that he didn't realize Becca had drawn them to a stop until she pinched his neck.

"Ow! Becca!"

He turned, expecting her mischievous grin, but instead caught puzzlement on her face as she gazed at the cityscape. She pointed and Bucky followed the line of her finger with his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Bucky, there aren't any Twin Towers."

"Yeah." He drew the word out, confusion rife in his tone.

Becca glanced at him, expectation shining in her eyes. He looked back, brows furrowed.

"You... didn't expect there to be, did you?"

She growled impressively and punched him on the arm. "Bucky! There are no Twin Towers in your soulmark!"

Bucky's not proud to admit that it took him a few minutes longer to understand the implication. When he did, a shiver traveled down his spine and unease slipped heavily onto his shoulders. His soulmark had been completed when he was 12, a whole year before 9/11. Unless Steve was clairvoyant (and despite the odd happenings in Puente Antiguo, New Mexico the military brass has informed their soldiers to ignore, Bucky severely doubted it), then the Towers should be there.

As he stared at the skyline, the niggling thought that something was very, very wrong lodged into his brain, exacerbating little inklings that he'd been ignoring forever. Like why Steve's adult face looked so familiar or why, even though they're both born and bred Brooklyn boys, Bucky just couldn't find him, couldn't recognize any of the landmarks around Steve when Bucky appeared to him. As he stared at the skyline, he rubbed absently at his side, right over Steve's initials. Something was very wrong.    

* * *

The nocturnal sounds of a desert were always disconcerting. Especially for a city boy. Twelve years off and on of missions in the sand would never get him used to it. But the stars were wonderful and the air was crisp. This, another thought written down in another journal for a man he was beginning to fear he’d never get to hold. Fleeting touches through the gleanings were never enough, never lasted to quell the ache in his empty arms.   

Wind kicked up out of nowhere, howling across the naked expanse before him like a wild thing. Danvers shifted in her sleep uneasily and Triplett twitched before settling again. The rest of his unit dozed on. Bucky sighed and looked down at his journal, just another book filled with all the bits Steve missed.

“Hiya, Buck.”

Bucky jerked around, gun up and cocked, journal tumbling to the ground. Steve blinked, and his shoulders migrated to his ears, and he smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Bucky dropped his SCAR to dangle on its strap and lunged in for a hug. He felt Steve’s body, ribs and spine sticking out as much (perhaps more) as usual, for the briefest of seconds before it slipped, like always, away.

Pulling back, voice even and dead, he stated, “You’ve been gone awhile.”

Steve shrugged haplessly and looked down, shoving his hands into his pockets. His right toe dug into the ground. “It’s cold here.” That thought barely settled when he spoke again. “So this is new. I’ve never visited you when you were on a mission before, which I assume is what’s happening since you’re wearing a big gun.”

A lopsided grin crossed Bucky’s face for the briefest of seconds before sliding off again. “Yeah. I never wanted you to, even the times you can’t see what’s around me.”

Steve examined him closely as he spoke. “I’ve never seen combat gear like that before. Is it new?”

Bucky blinked, then looked down at himself. Brow furrowed, he looked back up and gazed at Steve. “Not… really? Same as ever, though the gun is slightly newer, but all that’s really changed is technical.”

“Oh.” Steve shrugged, but he looked troubled. A sense of dread spread through Bucky, but before he could investigate the feeling further, Steve continued. “I have somethin’ to tell you. Can you talk?”

“Yeah.”

Steve nodded. His shoulders hunched, emphasizing the sharpness of his collarbones through his plain cotton shirt and making him seem shorter than his five feet and four inches. Bucky wasn’t used to seeing him anything but self-assured. It punched the air right out of him.

“Something wrong, babe?”

A humorless chuckle spilled out of Steve before he shook his head and closed the scant distance between them, settling firmly into Bucky’s side. Imaginary warmth bloomed through Bucky’s body. 

“I’m enlisting.”

Bucky stiffened and twisted to glare at Steve. “You’re what?!”

Steve cringed back and rubbed his ear, scowling. “Geeze, Buck, don’t do that. I know my hearin’s partially gone, but that close and that loud? You really done a number on it.”

“Sorry. But what are you thinking, Steve?” As soon as his outrage came, it went, as he watched a shiver pass through Steve’s body. Steve was too ill for the military. They’d never take him.

Breathing deeply to calm his nerves, he continued. “Steve, I know you hate injustice and want to take the bullies down a notch, but that ain’t really what you’re going to do here. And you just can’t.” He put his hand up to stop the flow of outrage before it spewed out of Steve. “You know you can’t. You’re too sick, and I know you hate to acknowledge that, but you are. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up only for them to be dashed.”

That mulish look Bucky was equally frustrated of and enamored by entrenched itself across Steve’s face.

“Buck, I gotta go. I don’t know this business about not fightin’ the bullies you’re talkin’ about because that’s exactly what this is! You’ll probably be sent to Europe soon, too! From the looks, you’re in desert trainin’.”

Something slimy slid down Bucky’s back. Slowly, he said, “Europe?”

Steve looked at him, hard. His eyes roved over Bucky’s equipment, his uniform, taking it all in. His lips thinned, and he said with deep irritation, “Yeah, Buck. That’s where the Nazis are.”

With a cruel clarity, everything came crashing together; the perpetual illnesses, the odd time capsule shoebox Steve lived in, being an artist in Brooklyn with no Twin Towers, enlisting and Nazis. Steve R. Bucky was suddenly, forcibly certain why Steve had always seemed familiar in a way separate from soulmate bonds and a beloved face. _God, let me be wrong._

“Hey, Stevie, you mean that metaphorically, right? About the Nazis.” His voice came out thin and fragile. He sounded like the child he’d been the day he and Steve had first gleaned.

Steve smiled sadly, tragically even if Bucky were feeling poetical, and shook his head. “Why you gotta do that, Buck?”

Bucky’s head spun and he could hear the roar of his blood as it rushed through his veins. His heart beat so hard he wondered if it would bang itself right out of his chest, leaving only a gaping, weeping hole behind. His vision whited out and he felt like he was being crushed.  

He’d had vertigo once. This was a thousand times worse. His dad was right. This isn’t gleaning. They’re just echoes; echoes from a man long buried somewhere in the Arctic, dead and unreachable. His chest seized, and he wondered if this is how Steve feels (felt) when he had his asthma attacks.

“Bucky?” Terror tinged Steve's voice and powered him forward. His hands petted Bucky's cheeks and forehead frantically . “What’s wrong?”

Bucky’s body just folded in on itself, dropping him to his knees. Steve’s voice sounded tinny and small, like he was talking through a long tunnel. It might as well be. Bucky was sure he was floating away because his soulmate is dead. Gone. Frozen and lost in a vast icy wasteland.

Time passed, but Bucky couldn’t say how much. He’d thought a thousand things, most of them fuzzy and forgotten, but the last… maybe he could warn Steve. Maybe he could influence Steve just a little so that he can disable the plane before it gets off the ground. If he did then-- then nothing.

Bucky deflated and pressed his head into the sand. His eyes burned. A high pitched, forlorn keen filled the air.

Then, nothing. Even if Steve lived through the war, he’d still grow old long before they could meet. A sob wrenched from deep within Bucky's chest as, for the first time in his life, hopelessness swamped him. He was drowning in it and he was sure it would kill him. He couldn't breathe. He didn't care. 

“Sarge?”

Wilson’s voice, soft but firm, accompanied a sure hand on Bucky's shoulder. “Hey, Sarge, what’s the matter?”

Sniffling, Bucky righted himself, barely glancing at Sam. He searched frantically for Steve, but he was already gone. Another sob wrenched from Bucky’s throat. He had a dreadful suspicion that that was the last he’d ever glean of Steve.

* * *

One year. It was one year to the day and Bucky hadn’t seen Steve since his hopes for the future twisted into his nightmare. It was the longest between gleanings they’d ever had. A stone settled heavily into Bucky’s stomach. He’d known it was the last. He’d known, but he’d hoped. The last warm flicker of it died as the clock ticked over to midnight and it became one year and one day since they’d last spoken.

He'd been staying at his folks', sleeping on the couch when he hadn't the energy to trudge to his former bedroom cum home office. Neither of them had been okay with him staying on his own when they'd found him lying on the floor of his apartment, covered in his own filth and blood, and shattered glass all around him, sparkling like snow in the sun. He shifted on the couch uncomfortably at the memory and pulled his blankets tighter. Steve would've had his ass for that.

Wind howled in the eaves of the house and Bucky shivered. Midwinter this year was savage. It was Steve's favorite part of the year, despite the risk of him getting sick. Winter was renewal, he always said. The clock ticked over to two past twelve.

It was a midwinter's midnight. A halfhearted snort followed the thought. Steve always loved shit like that. He'd always insisted Bucky write it all down, even as Bucky demurred. He'd secretly done it anyway. There were stacks and stacks of notebooks of poems and random poetic thought and musings, from seven year old Bucky until now. They'd all been patiently waiting for the day Steve could rifle through their pages and read the horrible words Bucky had kept safe just for him.

His notebook sat on the coffee table, a pen flush to its side. He could almost feel the accusations that he wasn't writing this down. But why? There was no one out there to read it. There was no one out there to dream of running off together, living the shared life of two starving artists, poetry and drawings writing out their lives in ink and charcoal.

He sighed, then leaned over to grab the book and pen, scribbling the first line furiously. _It was a midwinter's midnight._ Bucky stared down at those words, his first since Stevie became Captain Rogers, leader of the Howling Commandos - and dead. The pen creaked in his hand from the pressure as he clenched it into a fist. He could barely see the ink on the paper in the darkness, the room only slightly illuminated by the streetlamp outside, where it was a midwinter's midnight.

Nothing else came. Because there was nothing for inspiration. That all went down in a plane over 70 years ago. Growling, he threw the pen down and tossed the notebook aside.

He looked around his parents' living room, at the happy life of a mated couple displayed in the cozy, oversized chair they sat in of an evening, the photos on the walls, the shoes piled at the foot of the stairs and suddenly he couldn't breathe. A vice clamped around his body, squeezing and squeezing until Bucky felt the life spark barely flickering. But really, he wasn't sure there was much left there anyway. He needed out.    

He took a deep breath and let it out, forced his shaking hands to still and wipe the tears from his cheeks. He stood up calmly (numbly, his brain whispered) and slowly made his way out to the front stoop, blanket wrapped securely around his shoulders. The wind had gone, allowing the snow to fall gently, carpeting the road in a pristine white sheen. Cobble Hill was a wonderland in winter. That's what Steve had always said. Bucky hated it. He hated it like he’d hated everything since that night. (He'd loved it once).

Silence pressed heavily on the neighborhood. Even the distant zoom of cars was dampened in the stillness. As Bucky breathed in the icy air, he felt it was just what he needed. But the crisp, clean scent only reminded him of Steve. He’d been obsessive about his hygiene and, once upon a time, Bucky had found it amusing. That, like everything, had stopped when he realized Steve used to share a bathroom with an entire floor of tenement residents. Guilt and shame tinged a lot of his memories of Steve now, things that had once been amusing quirks having turned to strident necessity.

He stared out at the untouched snow for what felt like an eternity, the white of it blinding him. A flash, an amalgamation of what was written down and his own terrified imagination, took over his mind's eye, of Steve staring down at the white ice, paralyzed just like Bucky. But his face was twisted in anguish and fear as he stared, seeing nothing but that ice, as his plane dove closer and closer to his death. Bucky wondered if Steve ever thought of him in that moment, if he ever even knew that it didn't matter to their story if he died right then or a day or a year later.   

His ears, still as sharp as ever despite his one year (and counting) of mandatory leave, picked up the light click of the door as it opened. Footsteps crunched in the dusting of snow, light enough that he knew it had to either be his ma or Becca.

“Honey, you’ll catch your death.” His ma sighed the words out, resignation in every breath. She'd said those words often this past year. She knew Bucky's response. Tonight, he figured he'd keep a lid on it.

She gently lowered herself to the top step and handed Bucky a steaming mug of hot chocolate. When he took it, she snuggled closer to him, arm linking with his. She stared out into the street, head on his shoulder.  

 

 

She let him savor his drink in quiet for a few minutes more before she started speaking. It was nothing different from what she’d been asking for the past year, but Bucky suspected it may be a comfort to her.

“Are you sure? Soulmates separated by decades isn’t unheard of but nearly a century? Maybe you heard wrong. Maybe he said ‘latkes’ instead of ‘Nazis’.”

Bucky snorted, amusement passing fleetingly across his face. “Latkes, ma? He’s enlisting to fight the latkes? Because they're so militant?”

Winnie looked at him and smiled sadly, then burrowed her head more firmly against Bucky’s bicep. It was a nice moment, filled with more peace than he’d had in a long time. It wouldn’t last. Soon, he’d look up, expecting to see that thin, stern face bobbling above sharp shoulders. He'd expect to hear a surprisingly deep voice for such a thin body saying, _that's a mother's_ _magic._ Then that mischievous smirk would bloom unexpectedly, breaking the moment with a plan for a prank or a joke he couldn’t wait to play. But for now, wrapped up in his ma's magic, he could feel at peace for just a little while.

The moment was broken sooner than Bucky would have liked. Headlights drifted across the buildings at the end of the block as a suspiciously black SUV turned onto their road, wheels slushing the new snow. Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he watched it drive slowly down the road, only to come to a slightly unsurprising stop in front of his parents’ brownstone.

He stood swiftly, disentangling himself from the blanket and handing it off to his ma. He straightened into a defensive posture and placed himself solidly in front of her and watched. The front passenger door opened and a tall black man, dressed all in black swooped (like fucking Dracula, Bucky had to give him points for melodrama) out of the car. He even had a black eye patch over his left eye.

The man closed the door and leaned back against the car, arms crossed. His eye pierced into Bucky from the distance. If Bucky hadn’t grown up being harassed by one Steven Grant Rogers, he probably would have been intimidated by now.

“Well, this is all a bit Orwellian, don’t you think? And do you think we could maybe try the whole exit again? There wasn’t quite enough swoosh under your coat. I think the minions who man your fans were slacking.”

The nameless man smirked. “Cute. This, right here, it’s cute.”

Winnie gripped Bucky’s arm tightly and hissed, “Don’t antagonize him!”

“We’d be dead or have bags over our heads by now if he meant us harm, ma. Well, if I wasn’t armed.”

Winnie looked scandalously at Bucky. “You’re armed?! In your pajamas?”

Exasperation burst out of Bucky in a gust of air and he would have rolled his eyes if he felt comfortable taking them off the Phantom of the Opera. “Ma, when are you gonna learn that I’m always armed?” She huffed and turned away. Through his peripheral vision, he saw her firm her jaw and stand up tall. And people always assumed Bucky and Becca got their gumption from their pa.

“May we help you, sir?” Ma’s voice was stiff but soft, and carried over nicely to the G-man by the cool night air.

The G-man’s smirk settled into a gentler smile, making him look surprisingly kind. He gave a respectful nod to her before he turned to Bucky. The gentility in his smile turned stern. “I’m here for Sergeant Barnes, ma’am. There’s a… situation that I need his skills for.”

Bucky quirked a brow skeptically. “I don’t freelance, sir.”

The man shook his head. “I’m not asking for that, sergeant.” He reached into his pocket and Bucky stiffened. The G-man slowed his movements and opened the side of his jacket, revealing a pocket. “Relax. They’re just my credentials. Colonel Nicholas Fury, director of SHIELD.”

“SHIELD? What’s that?” His ma leaned forward, attempting to get a better look at the badge, but Bucky nudged her back up the steps and toward the door.

“Ma, go inside.”

“Buck--” Bucky whirled and grabbed her arms, glaring into her eyes. She gasped.

“Ma! SHIELD is classified Top Secret. I don’t want you near this.”

Winnie paused, studying his eyes for a short period before asking, “More secret than the CIA? I feel like they’re more secret than the CIA.”

“Ma!”

“All right, all right. I’m going. Don’t have an aneurysm.” She shuffled into the house to the accompaniment of Colonel Fury’s chuckles. Once the door was firmly shut, Bucky turned and strode to the sidewalk.

“I like her.”

“Please don’t. My parents don’t need government spooks in their lives. Now tell me, Fury, what exactly you need a Ranger for. I know you have people much more skilled than I to handle your missions, like that redheaded demon woman, Roma-something.”

Fury snorted inelegantly. “Right. This is… sensitive. I’d like not to discuss it in the open air. Ears are everywhere.” He paused and gave Bucky the once over. “You might want to change and say your goodbyes to your family. I have a feeling you’ll accept and when you do, I need you to start yesterday.”

Bucky stared Fury down with a displeased look in his eyes, just enough to let the man know that he wasn’t okay with being pushed around - or with dangerous government sanctioned killers popping round his family’s house. Then he nodded once and jogged up the stoop and through the door. Fury was right, of course. How could he refuse such a cloak and dagger entrance as that, anyway? The burst of adrenaline in his blood pushed all sorrow from his mind. This was exactly what he needed.

* * *

"You're shitting me."

The new man, Agent Coulson, barely raised an eyebrow at Bucky's colorful outburst. "Why would I do that, sergeant?"

Breathing became almost impossible as Bucky processed the unbelievable information he'd just been given. Steve was alive, frozen like a 1940s Encino Man. But alive.

He swallowed heavily and schooled his features. His hope was ruthlessly shuttered and his eyes force to reflect nothing but mild shock and interest. Like hell he was letting these people know who Steve was to him when he was defenseless. If this wasn't an elaborate trick, which would indicate they already knew and wanted Bucky for something.

"How?"

Agent Coulson shrugged. "Our scientists have theorized that a human at peak levels like Captain Rogers is just may, in fact, be able to hibernate in extreme conditions."

"Hibernate. You mean like a bear."

Mild amusement flashed across Agent Coulson's face for a brief moment before a placid calm settled over his features once more, immediately hidden as he ducked his head to look at his papers. "If that helps you, then yes, like a bear."

Bucky squinted and settled a supremely unimpressed look onto his face. "How do I know this isn't some sort of government hazing thing?"

Agent Coulson paused in his paper shuffling and looked back up, surprised inquisition radiating from his eyes, if not his face. "Hazing? Why would we do such a thing?"

Bucky shrugged carelessly. "Why does the government do anything? And you're more secret than the CIA. Maybe it's tradition when you want to recruit someone, I don't know. I may be Special Ops, but I'm not a spook. I don't know how you guys let your hair down or get your jollies."

A snort from the corner behind Bucky reminded him Fury was still in the room. At least he was amused. Bucky was pretty certain he'd scandalized Coulson. Then again, he was a spook. Maybe he was being lulled into a false sense of security before Coulson judo chopped him between the eyes.

A few seconds passed before Coulson seemed to get past Bucky's comments enough to pass him something from the pile he'd brought in with him. Bucky took hold of it just as he looked down. The shock that gripped him could not be considered a mild one and he almost dropped the culprit. He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath and set the photo onto the table, before tucking his hands into his lap. His shaking would draw questions.     

The photo in front of him was almost surreal. The anguish Bucky had imagined was nonexistent. Steve looked almost to be at peace. Bucky's relief washed over him like a wave. Steve's always had a strong imagination and a strong faith. Either one of those could have been the source, but Bucky was just thankful it was there. At least he hadn't died scared. Or not died, as it were.

 

 

He couldn't resist and brought his hand out of his lap and stroked Steve's cheek lightly, joy warring with disbelief and fear. He'd heard the phrase 'the world works in mysterious ways', but this was almost unbelievable. If he was an arrogant man, he'd think it was the universe reorienting completely around two men, each born on the wrong side of a century. Righting a wrong the cosmos had committed. But vain though he was, he wasn't so self-assured as all that. He stroked over Steve's cheek again.

No, he wouldn't be so arrogant as to assume that this had anything to do with him. It was Steve. It could have been luck, or coincidence, or the universe realigning to correct itself, but it was still all Steve. Only that little punk could tell Death to go to hell without him, and win. A watery chuckle slipped out and a tear plopped lightly onto Steve's frozen face. He quickly wiped his eyes under the pretense of an itch.

“Sergeant, are you all right?”

Bucky jerked his head up from the picture laid out before him and nodded, once, jerkily. He sniffed and straightened in his chair, stilled the shaking in his hands, if not his legs, and nodded once more, smoothly and firmly.

Fury eyed him suspiciously, arms crossed and a scowl on his face, while Agent Coulson observed him placidly. A few seconds passed before Agent Coulson began to speak again.

“Are you certain? We chose you not only because of your skills but because of your mandatory leave. It makes things easier on administration, for one thing, with the Army having no problem loaning out currently inactive soldiers. And for another, your background, even with the classified data, was very easily verified. But you were also placed on leave for a reason and if that reason will interfere--”

“No.” He said it calmly, in a strong, clear voice. Shouting his nerves out would be the fastest way to be relieved of this mission. “I can do it. I want to.” He stared assuredly into Coulson’s eyes. After a moment that seemed an eternity, Coulson nodded.

“Very well.”

Coulson was about to speak again when Bucky cut him off. "What mission, anyway? You need me to help integrate him when he wakes?"

Bucky looked up and caught the significant look between the two spooks. Something about it put his nerves on edge. He narrowed his eyes.

"En route to our facility, Captain Roger's body was, for lack of a better word, hijacked."

Bucky's heart stopped. His stomach rebelled. He clenched his teeth to keep his dinner from greeting the world again. "Hijacked? By who?" His breathing came heavier. "Who has the means to waylay an Army transport so near America and her allies?"

It was Fury who spoke this time. "We're not entirely sure."

Bucky let that thought settle into his mind. Some shady people wanted a super soldier, wanted his Steve. He nodded in acknowledgment, even as a numb fear spread through him. Steve was frozen, immobile. Defenseless and in unknown, enemy hands. Steeling himself, Bucky turned on his flippancy. He looked up and asked the other question that had been floating around his brain.     

“What do you mean, easily verified? You chose me because of my misspent youth?”

Coulson's grin was a ghost. “No, Sergeant. We chose you because we believe the theft of Captain America’s body was done by person, or persons, unknown inside of SHIELD itself.”

“So people with access to most of the US government’s secrets have gone rogue. And we don’t know who they are.”

Coulson nodded once, serenely.

“Well, that’s comforting. Really, I’ll sleep like a baby from now on.”

Another snort of amusement from Fury. Bucky was on a roll.

Coulson nodded again and continued on, unruffled. With the exception of a few instances, Bucky was beginning to think he was zen personified. It was a little creepy, but also kind of reassuring. This guy had an aura that screamed ‘you can trust me!’ Which, ok, spy guy. So total lie wrapped around a jodo chop to the face, but still. It was the thought that counts.

“We wanted to put an elite team together that had no affiliation with SHIELD. You fit the bill, sergeant. You're extremely skilled and you're extremely open and trustworthy."

If Bucky wasn't so afraid for Steve, he thought he'd be flattered at praise from SHIELD, the elite of the elite. He shrugged that thought off and watched shrewdly as Coulson set a stack of seven files in front of him.

"We only want a four person team, for now, because, as you know, SHIELD’s modus operandi is stealth. Your regular eight-person team is just too big. Like you, they've all been vetted. We’d like you to choose three of your compatriots, the ones who’s skills would most suit stealth.”

As the mission settled upon him, Bucky's emotions shifted. Worry, fear, they were pushed down below determination and duty. Sifting through the files, he examined his team's abilities and comparable missions, though it was all for show. He knew who he was taking. And if his determination was tinged with protective anger and his duty was not quite to whom Fury would suspect, that was Bucky's secret to bear.

* * *

Bucky surveyed the facility from his vantage point in the trees, his night vision binoculars clenched tightly in his hand. The unknown men, not soldiers - they didn’t have the discipline, had just unloaded what looked like a large, refrigerated casket. His breathing kicked up. That was his Stevie in there.

His earbud crackled to life and Wilson’s voice came over softly. “You see that, Sarge? Looked large enough to hold a man over six feet tall.”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“We can’t just barge in, guys,” Danvers said. “Their security is nothing to sneeze at. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were looking at a SHIELD field office in the middle of Poland."

Wilson butted in before she could continue. "Makes sense, since SHIELD suspects they've got moles. Sarge?"

Bucky nodded, giving himself time to formulate a response. "Fury and Coulson thought it was a rogue element, small and easily handled. But looking at what's right in front of us, in possession of Captain America, I wouldn't be surprised if that _was_ a SHIELD field office and the problem is bigger than they thought."

Danvers hummed. "Triplett?”

“You said it. And since these guys don’t look like soldiers, but spies, I'm inclined to agree with Sarge.”

“Spies or not, their structure is militaristic. And if it's a SHIELD field office, wouldn't Fury know about any deliveries? He's the director of the entire organization.”

Sam spoke up gently, but his voice quelled Danvers and Triplett. “Guys, does it really matter?”

Bucky nodded. “No. Blood is blood and we all die the same.” The harsh proclamation, delivered in a voice as cold as a glacier, sent an uneasy ripple through his crew. He could feel it, but he didn’t care. Some random bastards had their hands on Steve’s body. If they did anything, _anything_ , to him, they were all just going to have to die. It was that simple.

It was Sam who spoke up, but into his ear from right beside him, after sidling up silently. “Uh, Bucky, you’re scaring us a little. So if you could maybe just chill a little? And wipe that murder machine look off your face? Yeah, that’d be great, too.” Danvers and Triplett shifted nervously behind Wilson and he nodded back at them. “You’re making the natives antsy.”

Down at the facility, they were still maneuvering the box. They weren’t being overly gentle and careened more than a few times into walls and the edges of sharp metal doors. Bucky let out a growl. Sam blinked, turned to watch the scene through his own binoculars for a moment, before turning back, nostrils flared.

“Man, I get it. He’s an important legacy to us all. But you’ve got to calm down, Sarge.”

Bucky wrenched his gaze away from Steve’s vulnerable body and glared at Sam. He immediately backed away, hands raised placatingly. Danvers and Triplett shifted again, eyes locked on Bucky.

“No, you don’t get it. No one else on the face of this planet could possibly get how not OK I am about this. He’s not… he’s--”

Bucky shut himself off and closed his eyes. He couldn’t allow his tears to overwhelm him, not if he wanted to get to Steve’s body and live to return him home. He'd already been missing for a month and this was their first lead.

The shift in the atmosphere was immediate and it was all because of who Sam is, observant and empathetic, and a damn good detective. His silence was thick with sudden and devastated understanding. Before Bucky could head him off, he'd breathed the words Bucky had never once told anyone but his family.

"He's your soulmate." The words, simple and forthright, were tinged with a studied incredulity.

Bucky jerked his eyes open and looked through the binoculars again, but he nodded once, precise and clear. He heard the air whoosh out of Danvers and Triplett, but he didn't turn. He knew the sort of bomb this was, had the same sort of reactions from his family, though it had lasted for only a short while, with all the evidence they'd been witness to over the years.

It was Danvers who spoke first after that. "Your breakdown last year. It's when you knew." Bucky nodded again, jerkily. "How-"

Wilson cut her off. "The story doesn't matter. Not right now. Right now, we need to rescue our Sarge's boy and America's most beloved hero. After, we can badger them for a story I have no doubt will make a circus look sane."

Bucky grinned a little and tossed a grateful look Wilson's way. Wilson nodded and then turned back to his recon, all business. Danvers and Triplett followed suit. Bucky moved back, below the hill behind them, and opened his secure connection to Coulson.

"Coulson receiving Starbuck, you're a go."

Bucky rolled his eyes and allowed his natural sarcasm to settle his nerves. "I still say that's a stupid call sign. And also infringement of some kind, I'm sure."

He received a loud sigh for his troubles, and Bucky grinned. It'd only been a month's time, but he'd been told he's the only person to make Coulson emote quite so much and so publicly. He's quite proud of that. Sobering, he continued, "Are there any SHIELD field offices in the Belovezh Forest, eastern Poland?"

A heavy silence preceded Coulson's answer. "There used to be. It was decommissioned by order of the World Security Council. Poland had pulled support."

Bucky nodded. "Right. So either they're holding a military style rave in the middle of the forest hundreds of miles from any civilian occupied areas or SHIELD has a very large problem."

"You're saying it's not a small element." Coulson's voice was flat.

"I'm saying there's a defunct SHIELD office that's very much alive with busy little bees. Said bees are in possession of an unconscious, kidnapped man. And the swarm is, from what I've been able to see, at least 50 strong. Maybe more."

"Right."

"Permission to--"

"Denied, Sergeant."

"Coulson--"

"You will wait for more orders, Barnes. Hold position. Get some rest. I need to find those blueprints." Coulson let that settle before he continued. "Or do you want to get blown to smithereens before you can properly meet your soulmate?"

Bucky froze. Coulson continued on blithely.

"I've known since we recruited you. I thought you would be especially motivated to find our captain."

Bucky took a deep, desperate breath. "Does Fury know?"

"No. I respect the man. I like him. But he's intelligence through and through. He'd think nothing of using such a connection, if it helped the world somehow."

Bucky nodded. "I'm a terrible spy, by the way. My unit knows now, too."

Coulson chuckled . "Well, it's not for everybody."

Bucky huffed in amusement and was about to disconnect when a horrible thought occurred to him. "Hey, my call sign is actually our couple's name, isn't it?"

Coulson snickered. "I'm leaking it to the press when this mess is over. I need Starbuck in my life and so does every Captain America fan. Over and out."

* * *

They set up camp in the canopies of the trees, one man per three hours on recon and watch, the rest getting what sleep they could while strapped intimately to a tree. Breakfast came and went and it was well into midday when Bucky's secured tablet alerted him to a download. He shoved his granola bar inelegantly into his mouth and tapped eagerly to open the file.

He set the tab on his pack and motioned Danvers and Wilson over. They huddled around it and examined the layout from every angle. There was only the one large delivery entrance with a small entryway next to it - the one they'd been observing, and one door on the other side of the building. No other way into or out of the building, except for the inexplicable skylight in the middle of the roof.

Wilson pointed at it. "Why?"

Bucky opened a second file titled Notes and read what little was there. He shrugged. "Apparently it was put in because the agents stationed here complained about long shifts with no natural light and how they'd die if they didn't get any."

Danvers snorted and Wilson shook his head. Triplett chuckled.

"Well," Danvers drawled, "if we want to surprise them, I say we go in from above."

"And do what? Cirque du Soleil our way to the floor, somehow without being riddled with holes?"

Danvers glared at Wilson and shoved him in the shoulder. He merely raised his brows. "I know you're used to having wings, Danvers, trust me, I _know_. But we got to be smart about this. We don't have rappelling gear and we certainly don't have the advantage going in at such a public spot. Coulson notes it's an atrium in the middle of the bullpen. We'd be fish in a barrel."

Bucky nodded. "The surprise element would only knock them off their game for a few seconds, Private, not enough time for us to climb down, if there are even still any trees there, or at all. It's got to be the delivery entrance. It's closed off to the office areas so we won't be seen by everyone and the entrance into the hall that leads to the rest of the facility is a bottleneck in our favor."

"Fine, have a less exciting story to tell the family when we get home," Danvers said, voice dry but amused.

"And then have them all murdered by our government because of loose lips," Triplett quipped.

Bucky shook his head and smiled. He had a great team and was close to getting Steve back. He was allowed. "Any movement, Trip?"

"No, sir. If I didn't think it freaky that comic book villains held company parties for their employees, I would be inclined to believe they were all hungover at their desks and assorted torture machines. As it is, evildoers are not allowed to act human in my mind and thus, I can safely assume they are lurking around every corner, ready to murderize us."

"Comforting head space, Trip. Truly." Sam saluted him sloppily and smirked.

Bucky sighed and nodded. "At least it keeps him on his toes." Bucky walked to the edge of the treeline and observed the terrain. There wasn't a lot of cover leading up to the fence and even less from the fence to the building. Practical and smart, but a crimp in Bucky's plans. He pointed at the delivery door. "How many lights are on over that door at night?"

Sam joined him as Danvers watched their six and Trip kept his eyes trained on the far reaches of the building. "Four. Evenly spaced, cutting the door in quarters."

"Think we could get away with putting out three of them without suspicion?"

Sam looked at him and winked. "It was a rather windy day today and they are in the middle of a forest with things that like to break other things after catching flight."

"Those damn forests." Sam chuckled.

Bucky set up his sniper rifle and hunkered down to take aim. Sam was right. The wind had picked up a bit and, together with the silencers already attached and the distance between him and the building, it would hide any gunshot sound from the any sentries.

Bucky closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling his center settle into place. The wind, the distance, the chatter of his team became nothing. As he lay on the ground, gun in his hand, he was in his element. Opening his eyes, he took aim. Three quick shots, timed with the harder gusts of wind, and three lights shattered.

"Now all we got to do is wait."

"Always the worst part," Bucky murmured as he shifted to his knees, then set his left leg on its foot. Betsy rested heavily, comfortingly, on his right thigh.

Hours passed, and they each took turns resting and watching. There was no more chatter until just before dusk, when Danvers broke the companionable silence.

"Is it just me or is there something weird about no people at all since this morning?"

Wilson, lounged on his back in the dirt quite comfortably by the looks of it, lifted his head from his folded arms. "Or it could be all the excitement last night was out of the norm. They don't really need guards patrolling when where they are is supposed to be decommissioned and empty and so far from civilization."

Danvers bobbed her head amiably.

"I don't like it," Trip put in.

"None of us do, I'd wager," Bucky said mildly. "In any case, nothing about this has felt right from the beginning, but I think it's because we're tracking down traitors. That's a new one on me. Don't know about you folks."

The group fell silent once more. Bucky went back to cleaning his weapon. When dusk fell, he signaled his team and they strapped on their SCARs.

"Stay as low to the ground as possible. We don't want to be any higher than the scrub, lights or no." He glanced up. "And windows or no. The wind giveth and she taketh away." He pointed upward and his team followed the movement. "Nice bright white moon out from the clouds."

"Damn," Danvers mumbled.

Bucky nodded agreement, then made his way to the treeline. Once there, he ducked down and ran for the fence, the others following suit. The way down the hill and to the barrier was as uneventful as their slinking up to the delivery entrance. Once there, they pressed up against the building, Sam and Danvers at the regular entrance, quickly assessing the interior. With a quick hand gesture, Sam gave the go-ahead. Bucky motioned Trip forward.

Trip crouched at the left corner of the delivery entrance and pulled out his portable blow torch. It flickered to life and bit quickly and near silently into the metal, eating through it faster than Bucky could blink. In no time at all, there was a hole three feet by three feet. Bucky grasped the edges of the new door, deftly pulling it outward and setting it aside as Trip removed himself and packed up.

Team secured, Bucky darted in, gun aloft, eyes darting from corner to corner. Wilson was right behind, followed by Danvers with Trip at the rear. They secured the perimeter of the room before looking for anything that looked like building surveillance, with no such luck. Ducking down at the entrance to the hall, Bucky looked into the dark. Sam hunkered down next to him and spoke into his ear.

"Something's off."

Bucky nodded. When Danvers and Trip reached them, he crept into the corridor. The lights were set low, seemingly adjusted for the night crew, which probably meant a lot less than 50. They passed door after door, many open, some not, all unlocked. And empty each and every one.

Bucky slowed in the middle of the corridor. "They look like they've been looted."  

Sam pulled up as well and noted what Bucky feared. "Or quickly packed up."

"Yeah, I didn't really want to voice that."

Trip scratched his chin with the tip of his gun and Bucky winced, but refrained from reprimanding him. "You think we're the only ones here?"

"I'm pretty sure we are. Every room so far has been devoid of humanity and rifled through. The lights are on emergency power. It's dead silent."

"But there's no other way in or out and at least one of us had eyes on this place at all times. Even if we didn't, we'd have heard them leave."

"Maybe or maybe not."

Sam looked sharply at Bucky. "You're thinking hidden passageways."

Bucky gave a curt nod. "Who's to say they didn't build some after they took over after decommission? Who's to say they didn't build them right in under SHIELD's nose?"

Bucky slammed his fist into the wall and growled, then pressed his forehead into the uneven concrete wall. His heart quivered and his lungs collapsed. He felt like he was being crushed by a ton of debris, his breathe coming in staccato beats. Tears burned behind his eyes and he closed them tightly to dam them up. The little concrete lumps bit harshly into his skin, the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment.

"I should have seen this coming," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

His team didn't seem to move or breathe for quite some time; then Sam let out a steady breath and approached Bucky's back carefully. Bucky felt some dithering, Sam shifting, then some body heat hovering over his left side for a few seconds before Sam dropped his hand heavily onto Bucky's shoulder and squeezed.

"Look, Sarge, nobody could have anticipated this. You can't blame yourself. And more importantly, if you let this drown you, you'll fail Steve."

Bucky tensed and his eyes shot open. His fingers curled into the wall, clutching tightly in a desperate bid not to whirl around and sock Sam harshly on the nose. It wasn't his SIC's fault that a pervading sense of failure in his relationship with Steve had always tragically underscored Bucky's every moment with him. But bringing it to light, in front of the rest of his team, struck him deeply. He took a deep breath and let the sensation pass, then rolled his body around on the wall, roughly dislodging Wilson's hand, and leaned wearily against it. He stared forlornly at his unit. 

"It's not a new feeling, Wilson." He left it at that. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and let it out. He reeled in all his emotions behind the wall in his heart where he kept Steve safe like he couldn't in real life, from sickness at first and then his damn self-sacrificial streak. He pushed away the sense of failure and pretended it wasn't there, per SOP, and opened his eyes.

Danvers and Trip exchanged concerned glances. Wilson shook his head and raised his hand again, aborting swiftly at the hard look Bucky tossed him. Wilson nodded, then gestured at the room at large like his superior hadn't just had an emotional breakdown.

"We should search the premises, see if they were too hurried to take or destroy everything that could identify who they are."

Bucky straightened his equipment and nodded. "In pairs. And watch for trips. Danvers, with me."

He quickly turned before he could witness his team exchanging knowing glances. If he didn't, he'd disobey his own order just to get away from the humiliation from all of them, not just Sam. As he set out for the east rooms, he called over his shoulder, "Check in every 15 minutes, just in case, or just shoot and we'll know we're not alone."

Danvers and he searched diligently but silently, the only sound an occasional mutter of annoyance from Danvers at the inconsiderate lack of organization left in the wake of a very hurried exit. To Bucky, this was always his least favorite part of the mission, intel gathering that felt more like paper pushing. But this time, it was personal, and he scoured through the files like a fiend. There wasn't much.

"There's not much."

"Quit feeding off my brain, Private."

There was an uncertain beat before Carol responded. "Please, if zombies eat brains to get smarter, we're not going to start with yours."

Bucky glanced up from Polish words he didn't understand to see Carol casting a gentle smile his way. Bucky responded gingerly at Danvers' attempt at levity. He nodded once and then glanced back down, shuffling through yet more papers with what amounted to gibberish to him.

A few more minutes passed with the only sound being the crackle of the radio as Wilson checked in and the rustling of dry paper.

"Sarge," Tripp said.

"Go."

"The papers they left behind look old. Like, really old. Like, grumpy, get off my lawn old."

"Dude, you said that last year at the BBQ you threw, so that is not a great barometer to measure oldness," Danvers said, laughing.

Bucky sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched tight. "They're also in Polish. Or something that I assume is Polish. None of you have a previously unknown ability to read this language, do you? Because old or not, they probably have a story to tell about these guys we're after - at least who they are. If it was SHIELD, they'd have the logo in the upper right corner - and they wouldn't have left sensitive information behind to begin with."

"Well, we hope they wouldn't, but bureaucracy's kind of stupid," Danvers muttered.

"Don't you speak Polish, Sarge?" Trip asked. "I heard you speaking tongue twisting words once."

Bucky sighed. "That was Irish Gaelic, you ass. My pedigree is Irish and you know it."

"You are not a comedian, Trip," Wilson chimed in.

"I thought it was funny, Trip," Carol said sincerely.

"You would," Wilson retorted.

Bucky breathed deeply and counted to ten as his unit continued to bicker. He loved them, and he suspected they were trying to distract him, but with every 'joke' or stupid comment, his body wound tighter and tighter. He was a spring ready to snap.

"All right, people. Grab what you can. We'll take it to SHIELD for translation. Let's move out."

The bickering stopped abruptly. Danvers shot an apologetic look at Bucky and set diligently to stuffing handfuls of paper into her pack. Bucky zipped up and shouldered his own pack, eyes darting around the room for any sign of a hidden passageway. He stepped closer to the walls and ran his fingers along the seams, ran them along the metal shelving units and over every protrusion he could find on the main part of the wall.

"I suppose finding out how they got out of here doesn't matter." Carol hummed in acknowledgment. Bucky walked out of the room and down the hallway toward the back a little way, his fingers feeling around the walls. Carol's humming followed behind, getting louder with each step, drilling unpleasantly into his skull. "Could you stop that, Danvers?"

Carol's voice sounded farther away than Bucky had expected. "Stop what?" The humming turned into a buzzing even as Danvers spoke. Bucky paused and turned to look back at the room his private was still in, instead of being right behind him. He stepped back a few paces and then a few more back into the doorway of the room he'd just left. The buzzing faded to the level he'd first heard it.

"You hear that, Danvers?"

"The humming? I thought that was in my head." She shot him a curious look as she zipped and shouldered her pack, but a small smile snuck across her lips. Bucky huffed lightly in amusement, his tension breaking for a short moment. Sobering, Bucky nodded and pulled his handgun, Danvers following suit.

"Sarge, you hear that noise?" Wilson's voice crackled cautiously over the radio.

"Yep." Bucky's hand tightened around his shoulder radio as the humming gradually turned to a higher pitched whine. It didn't even take a second for the recognition and Bucky's eyes bugged out of his head. He yelled into the radio frantically, "Shit! Run, run, run!"

He and Danvers bugged out of the room like the hounds of hell were on their tails, zinging through the corridors so fast they pinged off the walls like pinballs. Bucky couldn't hear anything over the rushing blood in his head, his labored breathing as he sprinted toward the exit. His vision tunneled in front of him and time seemed to slow. Up ahead, he caught Wilson and Trip hightailing it out just ahead of him and a quick glance behind showed Danvers keeping pace.

The four hit the delivery bay just as the whine transformed seamlessly into a dull boom. Successive bursts followed the first as the device set off a chain reaction throughout the whole building. Debris shook lose by the force rained down on them and the walls began to shake as the concussive blast barreled toward them.

Bucky's lungs and legs were burning and his heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest. Seconds later, he felt like a bird being jerked around in a storm. He saw the ground shoot past under him as he was flung up and outward. One of his unit flew passed, he couldn't tell which, but he didn't have time to worry. The ground was rushing up to meet him, so he closed his eyes, tucked in his body, and did his best to for a controlled fall.

It was a moment wrapped in an eternity. And then it was over. Every bone in Bucky's body throbbed in tune to his heart. He groaned and rolled over, gripping his left elbow tightly. On his back, he could see the stars. Moaning, he closed his eyes. Even the faint light from the sky made him nauseous.

Still, duty first. He mustered what energy was not directed at controlling the pain and said, "Head count."

"One," Danvers moaned.

"Two," Trip coughed out.

"Probably dead," Wilson grunted.

"Not funny, ass," Bucky growled. Then he sputtered out a short laughing cough. Seconds later, three other voices followed.

"King, thou art Sam," Wilson intoned around his chuckles.

Bucky groaned, in chagrin this time, as he rolled onto his hands and knees. A slight twinge ran through his left wrist and up to the elbow, so he was certain he'd sprained it slightly. Other than that and a few bumps and bruises, he seemed fine.

"Inventory."

Three discordant voices gave three half-assed reports on their owners' well-being, but Bucky let it go. If they were well enough to laugh and grumble, they probably weren't dying. Sitting back on his haunches, Bucky breathed deep and opened his eyes, looking out into the forest.

Something dark, darker than the shadows of the trees moved. Bucky leaned forward, eyes laser focused into the treeline and gun up. His unit, expert as always, noticed and followed suit. They sat there, silent and still and waiting, as the wind blew through the leaves. The only sounds were the night creatures, bugs and birds and slithery things that Bucky - as a city boy - never, ever liked to think about.

Trip shifted from one foot to the other. "At this point, it would be a mercy if they just strafed us. My balls are on fire."

Muffled snickers mometarily drowned out the night sounds. Bucky rolled his eyes. "Can we be serious, please? I swear I saw something."

The dark thing moved again, stepping forward into the weak moonlight. Garbed all in black, the figure was hard to see, but the faint moonlight limned his outline. Tall, broad, and muscled, features obscured by distance and darkness, the man was a thing of nightmares. He stood, staring.

"That's not creepy at all," Wilson muttered. He cast a sideways glance at Bucky and continued, "What do you reckon he's waiting for?"

Carol shifted. "And why's he just staring at us?"

Bucky looked at the man's face and he could feel, deep into his bones, that it was just him the stranger was looking at. There was something about this man Bucky couldn't put his finger on. He stared on for a few moments longer before stepping back and disappearing.

His team stayed in position for a few beats longer, senses on high alert. Bucky scoured the trees, a strange frantic feeling settling in his gut, but there was nothing of interest to see. Sighing deeply, Bucky stood slowly from his crouched position, his unit cautiously following.

"Right, well. I feel a bit mouse to his cat," Sam commented. Bucky nodded distractedly, his hands gripped in a stranglehold on his automatic. A funny flutter in his gut told him the strange man was still out there somewhere, watching. Like he was curious.

"Why didn't he try to kill us again, you reckon, Sarge?" Trip knocked him out of his reverie and Bucky shook his head.

"Don't know," Bucky murmured. He cleared his throat and straightened his pack. "We need to get back to SHIELD, get these pages translated and before our would-be assassin changes his mind about leaving us breathing. Move out."

His subordinates quickly hopped to. Bucky watched them head off and, before he followed, glanced over into the trees once more.

* * *

The family dinner was quietly awkward like it always is when he's home on rest leave. It was worse this time, with his father especially disapproving of Bucky getting back to work so soon. Bucky's arm started to itch under the sling and he shifted uncomfortably, reluctant to scratch it lest it spark more family upset. He shifted again to put his left arm closer to the edge of the dinner table and pressed in lightly.

The move did not go unnoticed by his pa, who's eagle eyes Bucky inherited that make him such a good sniper.

"Tell me again why another year or two of leave would've been so bad? Three years is quite reasonable for what happened to you." His pa's voice was gruff, but the concern laden beneath it brought a lump to Bucky's throat.

"George," Winnie warned.

"I just don't understand why Bucky is needed. I'm certain the US government has hundreds of other equally skilled spec ops leaders. It's not an army of one!" George emphasized his point by slamming his hand against the table. His voice echoed in the silence of the room.

Bucky closed his eyes and drew in a breath, making a decision. He'd never once even considered imparting details of a mission to his family, but this was close to all their hearts. And it's not like they'd tell anyone. This was about family.

"I'm sorry," George whispered.

Bucky shook his head and reached out to clasp his pa's hand. He squeezed it reassuringly and then released it to lean back in his chair.

"Steve's alive."

It was like a bomb had gone off. His ma twisted her napkin viciously and Becca stuck the end of her hair into her mouth, chewing anxiously. They exchanged speaking glances with each other and with his pa. George sat up straight and cleared his throat, then scooted his chair closer to the table. He leaned over it and looked directly into Bucky's eyes.

"This is what I'm talking about, Bucky."

Bucky growled. "I'm not losing it. Steve was found frozen in the Arctic. The serum in his blood put him into a state of hibernation inside the ice."

He looked around into three sets of shocked eyes. "The organization--"

"SHIELD." George and Becca nodded knowingly.

Bucky glared at his ma. She looked sheepish for a brief moment before impatiently gesturing him on. "Why isn't Steve here then? It's a been a month."

"During transport, Steve's body was hijacked." He paused as his family let out exclamations of outrage and concern. "I know. Fury came to me because of my record and that of my team to track down and recover his body."

Becca touched Bucky's sprained arm lightly, then pulled back. "How did they find out?"

Bucky shook his head. "They don't know my connection to Steve. They came to me because I was easily vetted. They needed someone they could trust, who would be loyal to the United States, because they suspect the abduction is an inside job."

George sucked in a breath. "Traitors?"

"Yeah, traitors."

Again, silence fell over the family as the impact of this knowledge hit them. Fear became a tangible thing in the room, fear for Steve, if they'd ever find him, what these people wanted with him.

"Full disclosure," Bucky started softly, "I took the job before I knew what it was because it made me forget for a little while. Until they gave me the mission. Then it became something I _had_ to do."

"Oh, honey, we know. You don't have to explain." His ma reached across the table and patted his hand reassuringly. "You just focus on finding our Steve and your father and I will set up the attic for you two as your own private oasis once you bring him home."

Bucky smiled softly. "Thanks, ma." He turned his hand to grasp hers. "I know I don't  have to say it--"

Becca punched Bucky gently in the head. "We're not gonna tell anybody, you lump."

Bucky snickered. "Right."

* * *

A stack of files plopped down onto the wrought iron cafe table Bucky was sitting at, disturbing the rather quiet reflection he'd had going on. It was a plain manila folder, no identifying markings, so he wasn't surprised when Coulson lowered himself down into the seat opposite. Bucky continued to sip his chai tea casually, foot jiggling across his knee nervously. He allowed his sunglasses to slip down the bridge of his nose and looked over the edge blankly.

Coulson stared back just as impassively, even as he stole a bite from Bucky's bagel. "Those are the translations of the Polish intel your unit recovered."

Bucky eyed the file a moment before darting his gaze back up to Coulson. "Isn't this something that should be discussed in private?"

Hand waving dismissively, Coulson continued. "We don't know who these people are, but they certainly have had a hand in quite a lot of mayhem over the last few decades, four of them that have been accounted for in the mission reports."

Bucky slurped at his tea and opened the folder. The first word that caught his attention was Gorbachev. Surprised, he looked up. "Russia is behind this? Not that that is too surprising, really."

Coulson shook his head. "If you read further, you'll see both Gorbachev and Reagan mentioned, along with other details about inciting war and how they did it. Whoever these people are, they try to sew chaos. They played both sides during the Cold War. There are mentions of fomenting unrest in South Africa during apartheid and then switching to the other side and encouraging it."

"That makes exactly zero sense."

"It does when you want to slip into places unseen. When people are too bothered with fighting each other, they're not going to be watching their back doors."

Bucky bit his straw, grinding it between his teeth, as he let that sink in. When he spoke, it was slowly, as his mind tried to piece together a shattered vase. "What you're talking about is a shadow government, a cabal of politicians who have conferred bureaucracy unto themselves, free of any country."

"Quite."

"... so what's the codename for this shit? NWO?" Coulson stared at Bucky, mouth flat and eyes flinty. Bucky looked back calmly. "Because I feel like New World Order is just a little too on the nose." He stopped to give Coulson a chance to comment, but crickets could have filled the void between them. "How about Anarchy for the Lark-y? 'Cause it feels like these fellas are doing this shit for fun, gotta say."

Coulson blinked once and Bucky reeled back. "Damn, Coulson. Just trying to spice up government operation names. No need for the expletive filled diatribe."

"If I haven't said so before, Barnes, our good captain is a lucky, lucky man." Bucky's jaw dropped indignantly. Coulson stood, blithe as ever, leaned over, and stole the remaining bit of Bucky's bagel, popping it slickly into his mouth. As he walked off, he called over his shoulder, "Debrief 1500."

Bucky glared at Coulson's back until he disappeared into his car. When the other man was gone, he turned back to his table, chuckling. He jumped.

"Shit, Sam! Wear a bell!"

Sam sighed and shook his head lamentably while he set his own breakfast onto the table. He took his time settling in and setting up his eating station just so before he finally spoke.

"Why." Sam's soft eyes and admirable ability to make a question an undeniable statement usually got Bucky to talk, but as the other man gazed at him, a knowing gleam somewhere in their depths, Bucky's hackles rose. He continued on flippantly.

"Poking him with a stick is fun."

Disappointment clouded Sam's eyes for a second before they cleared and he smiled and nodded. "Of course." He nodded at the file, now closed, and asked, "Anything interesting?"

Bucky flicked the folder toward Sam and shrugged. "Oh, you know, shadow government, chaos reaping, same old, same old."

Sam reached for the folder and flipped it open, eyes shining and a teasing smile on his face. "Cool. I've always wondered who would win in a fight, the good ol' US of A or the Illuminati."

Bucky snorted. "Please. Everyone knows the Shriners would put us all into graves. And do it quite dapperly in those fezzes and riding those itty bitty little cars of theirs."

Sam chuckled lightly before becoming absorbed in the reports. Bucky watched the expressions flit across his face for a little while before losing interest and turning to look at the little park across the street, mind a million miles away. With each day that passed, Steve got farther and farther away and it became a near insurmountable objective to believe his abductors hadn't killed him already in attempts to replicate the serum.

Bucky's breath lodged in his throat and it felt like he couldn't breathe. He sat forward, head turned away from Sam, and huffed small, quick breathes inward. It was wrong, he knew. There was a proper way to do things.

His mind flashed back 16 years. He'd gleaned again, one of the rare times he ever did so. Joy spread over his face and he turned, eyes frantically searching for his matchstick boy. What they found was Steve, curled in a ball on the floor, wheezing like his lungs were clawing their way out of his thin chest.

"Steve!"

Panic surged through Bucky and he ran, falling to his knees beside Steve, hands fluttering everywhere, not daring to land anywhere, even for a fleeting moment. He watched, heart in his throat ( _I can't breathe_ ), as Steve struggled with what everyone else Bucky knew took for granted.

Wanting to be close to him, he laid down on the floor, forehead to forehead, and snugged his hand between their bodies. He started breathing deeply, slowly, setting a rhythm.

"Breathe with me, Steve. Come on. In, hold, out, hold. Repeate. In, hold, out, hold."

Seconds, excruciating seconds, passed before Steve's body grabbed hold of the familiar cadence, and he breathed in with each of Bucky's breathes, and out. Their bodies worked in tandem for what seemed hours to Bucky, one lending strength where the other faltered. Finally, Steve calmed.

He raised his head up and looked into Bucky's eyes. The blue of them ensared Bucky like they always do and he blurted, "This was impossibly romantic, punk." He froze, eyes wide and his face steaming hot, covered by an impressive blush, no doubt. Steve blinked once and then an irritated storm started brewing in his eyes. Bucky watched anxiously, but before the storm could unleash its fury, it died out. Steve's eyes cleared as understanding dawned. A light flush dusted the apples of his cheeks and a small smile flirted with coming out.

"Oh. Yeah." He ducked his head and looked up from under his lashes, bashful and yet ever so coquettish. Steve had always said he never understood how to flirt, but at this moment, Bucky was convinced Steve was a filthy, rotten liar.

He came back to himself with a jerk when a large, warm hand shook his arm. He blinked and looked up into Sam's face, somewhat surprised that his breathing was back on autonomic function.

"Bucky? You all right, man?"

Shaking his head, Bucky knocked loose his distraction, and then nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. Thinking. What did you say?" 

Sam observed him sceptically for a moment. Bucky gazed back, plastering a placid, somewhat confused look onto his face, forehead wrinkled in question. Seeing this, Sam huffed in annoyance and sat back, arms folded.

"I asked if you read the entire document."

Bucky glanced at the folder on the table. He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"If it's got nothing on where Steve is, I don't particularly care at the moment."

Sam stared. "They've done some fucked up things."

Bucky went cold, from heart to face. "And if any of those things were done to Steve, I will find it within myself to care. Deeply and with a violent rage." His voice was chipped ice, frigid and dangerous.

Sam raised his hands placatingly. "Hey, that's fair, man. That's fair."

Bucky closed his eyes and breathed again, then nodded. He opened his eyes and smiled at Sam, chagrined. "Sorry."

Sam shook his head, the look on his face a mix of amusement and terror. "Hey, I'm sure if it was my soulmate, I'd go full Murder Face, too."

Bucky opened his mouth, retort on his tongue, when something across the street caught his eye. He looked over and spotted a man in well fitted dark wash jeans, biker boots, leather jacket, cap and sunglasses, and a truly impressively groomed beard. All in all, nothing extraordinary. Except.

Bucky nudged Sam's foot with his own toe, then jerked his chin in the direction of the man when Sam looked up.

"Remind you of someone?"

Sam observed the man from head to toe. He took his time and when he spoke, his tone of voice contradicted everything his words said. "Lots of men have body types like the Phantom Menace."

Bucky clenched his jaw. "We agreed not to call him that."

Sam hummed apathetically and calmly went back to eating his sausage links, even as he stared down what seemed to be the scariest man alive. "I believe you agreed. The rest of us vetoed. You overruled by virtue of being capable of making us scrub toilets with our own toothbrushes."

They watched as the unknown man watched them. They weren't subtle because a man like that knew when he was being observed. He didn't seem inclined to do anything to them in public other than intimidate and Bucky attributed that to the fact that his employers wanted to remain anonymous to the general populace.

"He can find us."

A shiver coursed down Bucky's spine. "Seems like it."

"Think he'll harm our families as some sort of warning?"

"Do I look like I know what goes on inside his brain?"

Sam cast him an intense look and uttered, "Yeah, actually, you do. Or did, the first time we encountered him."

Bucky looked back at Sam, brow furrowed. "Really?"

Sam shrugged and turned back to their stalker. He blinked, surprised, and stated, "Dude's gone. I think the Shriners just want to scare us." He took another bite of his sausage. "It's working. That guy's a tank. Remind me to donate to their hospital, maybe they'll call off their dog." 

Bucky laughed more heartily at that than it deserved, even with Sam's deadpan delivery. But the lighthearted moment passed like smoke on the wind. They sobered and looked at each other.

"Think we should send our families away?"

"No. They can find us at an obscure cafe in Brooklyn, they can find our families. I'd rather have mine near."

Sam nodded. "Me, too."

"Just warn them to be careful and tell Danvers and Trip that, too."

With Sam's acknowledgment, Bucky turned back to the bustling street and scoured every inch, from busy thoroughfare to shadowy doorways. He felt a little like he wanted to puke.

"Sarge? He's gone."

Bucky nodded without looking at Sam. "I know. But I think I know that man."

Sam hummed. "How?"

"I don't know, but he's familiar. It's hard to tell with how he disguised his face. I just... felt it."

"You're cracking, Bucky. I'd suggest a spa day, but."

Bucky nodded. "But." Sighing, he watched Sam chow down on his bagel sandwich before lugging himself to his feet. "I've got a meeting to get to. Hopefully, we've got a bead on where to go next. In the meantime, keep an eye out for that man."

Sam nodded, but his focus was on his food, so Bucky shrugged on his leather jacket, grabbed his helmet, and headed for his bike.

* * *

The photos showed damage to the compound walls that looked like someone had taken one of the smaller sized wrecking balls to it. Few lives were lost in the attack, but the rest of the photos tell the tale of it not being for want of trying. Two of the corpses looked as if their chests were punched in, right through the Kevlar vests. The three remaining bodies were riddled, oddly, with their own bullets.

Bucky shuffled through the file again, rereading parts and scouring the photos. Brow furrowed, he looked up at Fury. "What does this have to do with my stated mission?"

Fury leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His one eye glared at Bucky. Bucky stared back, stoic. "We suspect that whomever abducted the captain is responsible for this attack. That base was holding highly experimental, extremely dangerous technology. Very few people below the Army brass and DOD, all of them working on the project, knew about its existence. I know it's not a lead on the captain himself, but if we have a leak, it's at least a possible lead on the group."

Bucky breathed deeply and looked down at the photos again. The carnage was unbelievable. It didn't look cruel, just efficient and brutal - getting the job done. It might lead to Steve, though. He glanced back up at Fury. "What was stolen?"

"Need to know."

Bucky cocked an eyebrow. "If you expect me to recover it, I need to know."

Fury quirked one side of his mouth. "It's a shiny, gray metal box about 6x6 inches."

"Funny," Bucky grunted.

Fury shrugged. "Your transport leaves in an hour."

Bucky nodded and stood, tossing the file back onto Fury's desk. He was halfway to the door when his neck hair stood on end, like the entire room had been filled with balloons and a dozen socks soaked in static electricity were dropped in with them. He turned and eyed Fury suspiciously. The man was focused on his paperwork seemingly to the exclusivity of everything else, but Bucky knew the type. Bucky is that type. He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He waited.    

Minutes passed by loudly as the analog clock ticked on, the only sound in the room. Finally, Fury sighed and raised his head, scowl firmly in place. "What?"

"What are you keeping from me?"

Fury shook his head and went back to his work, the dismissal clear. "You should be used to it by now."

"Not when it pertains to my mission. When you go in blind, you get slaughtered. As a former Army man, I'd have thought you knew that."

Fury sighed, but he still kept his focus on his desk. "I will tell you if and when it is confirmed. Dismissed."

Bucky's jaw twitched, but nonetheless, he nodded sharply, turned smartly on his heel, and marched out of the room. "This is exactly why I'm not a spook." He looked back once more and shouted, "You don't need to pretend to work! That's a half real office in an abandoned warehouse!"

His annoyance lasted throughout getting kitted up and all the way to the tarmac, where he greeted his unit with a curt jerk of his head. Pretending not to notice the Looks they sent each other, he strode up the ramp of the Quinjet and settled in. His unit followed carefully.

As the pilots set the sequence to take off, Danvers, Wilson, and Trip whispered - not softly enough - fervently amongst themselves. Bucky rolled his eyes. "And this is exactly why Larry, Curly, and Moe aren't spooks."

Sam glowered. "Uncalled for." A beat and his face cleared. "But fair. Now tell us why your Captain America briefs are in a bunch."

Bucky's cheeks heated lightly. "One, you promised never to talk about that incident again; two, they were loaners, as you very well know; three, while I have always respected Captain America and admired Steve Rogers, I was never one of those fanatics, which I hope will help make our relationship when he is recovered less awkward; four, shut up."

Danvers and Trip cracked up, shaking with laughter in their seats as Sam sat on smugly. When the ruckus died down, Bucky sobered. He unbuckled and stood from his seat, motioning his unit to the back. When they were all gathered, he lowered his head and spoke softly.

"This is an odd mission. I have a feeling we're not being sent to find Steve."

Sam nodded knowingly. "You think he's not using us per the instructions on our box."

Bucky nodded. "Mostly, I think he wants us to recover this stolen tech since we're still off books."

"Which begs the questions of 'what is it' and 'why don't they want anyone else to know'," Trip commented.

"Yeah, I should, but I don't really care at the moment. I don't like being distracted from Steve." Sam clasped Bucky's shoulder tightly for a second, then let his hand drop. "That's another thing. I think he knows something, about Steve I mean, and he's not saying."

Danvers pursed her lips as she focused on cleaning off her SCAR's scope. "What makes you say that?"

Bucky shrugged and scratched his cheek. "Just a feeling."

Danvers raised her brows. "Just a feeling?"

"One of those sniper honed abilities, I'd imagine, that we regular grunts wouldn't understand." Sam knocked Carol's shoulder lightly with a smile.

"Right. You need to lay off the ESP, Sarge."

Bucky stared blankly at Danvers until she shifted neverously, then flashed a predatory smile. "You need to lay off the insub, private."

Before the conversation could devolve any further, the quinjet started its descent. Sam shook his head in a strange combination of disappointment and awe. "I'll never get over how fast these things are."

"I'll never get over how you'll never get over it," Trip quipped.

As Bucky strapped himself back into his seat, he muttered, "I'll never get over how you people are my friends."

* * *

The base was a mess. Corpses lay sprawled here and there while desks and lab tops and shelves were strewn quite violently across the floor - and in some memorable cases, through the walls. Scorches marked the walls and, occasionally, the floor. It didn't look like weapons fire, more like an experiment gone wrong, which would make sense since they were in a lab.

Wilson whistled long and low as he walked through the hole in the four foot thick reinforced steel wall. "Damn. It's like they took a wrecking ball to this place."

Bucky looked around, eyeing the scorch marks suspiciously, as he nodded. "Was it blown in?"

"Doesn't look like it. It's like it was... punched, sort of. But like, with a real huge fist or something. Whoever these guys are, they must have some real stealth tech that packs a wallop. And that's kind of scary."

Danvers sighed as she lightly kicked some trash across the floor. "What exactly are we supposed to be doing?"

Bucky shrugged. "I think it's busy work. Obviously, they already had the place analyzed or else there wouldn't have been pictures. Just... see if you can find anything that will make this waste of time not so wasteful."

Frustration bubbled up inside Bucky as he carefully navigated the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. They'd all mostly been cleared, either by the insurgents or SHIELD. Steve was out there, being subjected to only God knows what, and here Bucky was, prowling through a top secret lab doing something most likely nefarious (never mind it's a US facility) for no reason he could discern. The bubbles of frustration turned to anger. When they got back to fake HQ, he was going to punch Fury.

Bucky turned a corner into what must be the main lab where the mysterious box had been held. The overturned tables could be seen through odd square shaped burns in their tops, covered in plexiglass as hasty repairs. It wasn't hard to guess that whatever could burn through tables like that was the mysterious technology. He wandered the room, the hand not rested on his gun running along the sides of tipped tables and chairs, absently tracing the dips and nicks and natural warps of each piece.

He stopped. He ran his fingers backward along the edge of the lab top and then forward again. It was hard to tell through his gloves, but the imperfections in the metal didn't seem so random. Brow furrowed, he turned to look at the texture. His heart skipped a beat and his breath caught. There, crudely etched into the metal of the table, was a symbol he hadn't seen since last year.

Bucky felt himself drift back years, to 16, to when he'd finally asked Steve what it was he always drew on Bucky's palm.

"Whatcha drawin', Steve?" Bucky's palm twitched, just a bit, as Steve's slim, pale fingers tickled his skin with the convoluted motion over and over again. Steve glanced up and smiled a little, his cheeks pinking just the tiniest bit. Bucky sat up straighter, interest peaked. Steve was many things, but shy with his thoughts was not one of them. Bucky could count on one hand the amount of times he'd gotten a blush out of Steve.

He poked Steve in the side with his free hand and Steve jerked out of the way, laughing. His voice was already deepening, more so than Bucky's. Bucky just knew he'd grow up and out of his sickness, into a tree of a man, one of these days. Steve always scowled and wouldn't speak to Bucky for the rest of their gleaning, no matter how many times Bucky said it didn't matter if he never did, but Bucky could just _feel_ it. He didn't voice those thoughts anymore, especially not when his mind itched in curiosity for an answer.

"Aw, come on, punk. Spill." He jabbed Steve again, pushing as much corporeality into his finger as possible. Steve yelped and dropped Bucky's hand and Bucky couldn't help but bark out a laugh.

Steve glared for all of two seconds before laughing out a 'jerk' and swatting Bucky's shoulder. "All right, all right already." He stopped, then, to swallow. His head dipped and he folded his hands into his lap, fingers worrying his already worn shirt.

Bucky darted out quickly to still his hands. "Would ya stop that? Ya got precious few shirts as it is, you don't gotta ruin 'em any faster."

Steve froze for a second and then turned his hands over to grasp Bucky's. He held on tight as he spoke. "It's a Celtic eternity knot, you know, a love knot. My ma and pa had one for each other. Now we have one."

 

 

Bucky's heart beat double time as elation spread through him. Steve rarely said he loved Bucky. He implied and talked around, but never really said it, especially when they were outside. Bucky could never figure out why. It was a precious moment to Bucky when Steve even said the word.

He tuned back in as Steve continued talking to his lap. "It's just a circle, twisted on itself, sort of like a figure eight in both directions. There's many different versions, but I thought a simple one matched us perfectly. We can - we can change it if you don't like it or if you'd had somethin' else planned."

Bucky felt warm all over. Words failed him. Steve pushed on through the silence.

"Or we don't gotta wear anything at all. I just thought since, you know, it would be a way to show our love without gettin' into trouble. Since it's not something really known outside of Irish heritage, no one would know what they mean. Those who did would just think we matched someone else."

There was so much there to unpack that Bucky almost didn't know where to begin. Trouble? Since _what_? But Steve was wilting into his shoulders again and Bucky couldn't have that. Those other questions could wait.

"I love it, Steve."

Steve glanced up slowly, a bashful smile lighting up his face. "Yeah?"

Bucky smiled brightly. "Yeah. It's neat, too. How d'you know about these things anyway?"

Steve frowned as he straightened up and then scooted closer to Bucky, tucking himself into Bucky's neck. "Ain't ya Irish, too, Buck? Or has your family been Anglicized, like some of the east coast Irish nearer to England?"

Something about that didn't sit well in Bucky's stomach, like a lot of things Steve said, but he brushed that off for the moment, too. "My parents are third generation American."

Steve huffed. "Don't mean they gotta forget about their ancestry, but I guess you don't speak a lick of Irish Gaelic either, eh?"

Bucky kissed the top of Steve's head. "Not a word, but if ya tell me how to say 'punk', I can give it a go."

Bucky blinked and came out of his memories, Steve's deep laugh echoing in his ears. He took an unsteady breath as he stared at the simple eternity knot gouged into the metal, the lines shaky and not at all like the elegant and skillful execution Steve is capable of, but Steve's doing nonetheless. Bucky just knew it deep in his bones.

He thought about the hole in the wall, the neat kills, the knot. He thought about SHIELD and he thought about his team. He thought about the dangerous stranger whom he inexplicably felt he knew. He thought about Steve and out of control super soldiers and what governments tend to do to silence a problem. Unease, like slime, slithered down his back. His stomach roiled. He wasn't the sharpest rock in the box, though, so he was probably wrong. He usually is. His burning eyes told him what his mind didn't want to know.  

"Sarge?"

Bucky whirled toward the voice, eyes wide. Wilson stood half in the doorway, eyebrows raised in question. His eyes darted curiously toward the table. Bucky glanced down, too, realizing he was still lazily caressing the knot. He took his hand away as casually as he could and rested it benignly onto his gun. He cleared his throat, once, twice, and when he was reasonably certain his voice wouldn't crack, asked, "Anything interesting?"

Sam glanced once more, briefly, at the table edge, but answered dutifully. "Nada. It's been picked over." He left a loaded silence for a moment, glanced at the lab top again, then back at Bucky. "You?"

Bucky shrugged, easy and loose. Natural. "Just weirdly square burn holes about the size of the mysterious tech that was stolen."

Sam squinted his eyes shrewdly. "You sure about that?"

Affecting aggravation into his features to cover his unease, Bucky snapped, "Does it look like there's anything else here?"

Blinking, Sam nodded amiably. "Sure, sure. Sorry to question you... sir." He turned to go before stopping and looking back once. His voice was near silent with his parting words. "I'm here if you need to talk." Then he turned and strode down the corridor.

Bucky breathed deeply, trying to center himself. Lashing out at his unit was not kosher, no matter how scared he was. He stayed a moment longer with his eyes closed, remembering Steve's laugh, his elegant fingers tracing their love knot into Bucky's skin. When he opened his eyes, he quickly unsheathed his knife. He glanced quickly at the door before he turned to the knot and set about gouging into the metal, ridding any evidence of Steve's call for help. He couldn't say why, if asked. Nobody knew about the knot's meaning, its existence in Bucky's and Steve's lives. And nobody would ask about something they don't know about.

* * *

Bucky's body was locked up with tension the entire plane ride home. Sam's side eyes made guilt fester darkly in his chest even though Bucky was fairly certain he had no reason to feel like that. Personal was personal.

When his unit was seated in front of Fury for debrief and Trip mentioned that the wall looked like it had been punched in, Bucky tried not to wince. If his suspicions were correct, he didn't want SHIELD to know. He carefully watched Fury's face for... anything, but the man was made for subterfuge. Bucky was fairly certain he came out of the womb with his cloak and dagger.

Bucky glanced down at Fury's desk, covered in papers, files, and other spy paraphernalia, but only one thing caught his eye. The autopsy reports for the dead soldiers and scientists from the lab. He wasn't certain what, if anything, could be determined about a person's strength - or if it had been done with bare hands - that could be determined after death. That was his pa's forte, true crime fan that he was.

Fury sighed and rubbed his temple. "Well, we may not have found out anything useful, but we sure as hell will find out where they've been soon enough. What they've stolen isn't very stealth if they're using it offensively."

"I think it's time we needed to know," Bucky stated, voice flat.

Fury quirked one side of his mouth humorlessly and pointed stridently at his door. "You know the way." Then he bent his head to his secret files and started to hum. Bucky sat there and stared, ire bubbling over. SHIELD was jerking him and his team around for devil knew what reason and Bucky was tired of it.

He opened his mouth to object when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Come on, Sarge." Bucky glared up at Sam and received a stern frown in turn. Sam jerked his head subtly toward the door. Bucky gritted his teeth and stood, following Sam out the door.

His unit was silent as they trudged down the hall, weighed down with an unsuccessful mission and confusion on why they were even there.

"Well, that was a bust," Carol huffed. Trip nodded, eyebrows quirked, and fist bumped her. "I'm going to a bar to get shitfaced. Anyone want to come?"

Bucky and Sam waved her off as they got into their respective vehicles, but Trip followed behind, trying to cajole Danvers into a game of pool. Bucky leaned his head back and groaned, letting his frustration, exhaustion, and fear free reign. The love knot flashed before his eyes. Burning tears welled up fast. Steve was awake, but he was trapped. Bucky didn't want to even think what this shady organization could have done to control the strongest man in the world.

A knock on Bucky's passenger side window startled him and he jerked upright, reaching for his sidearm, before sense reasserted itself. Sam's lips moved in a semblance of a smile as he motioned the window down.

Bucky started his car and pressed the auto button. Sam leaned in, arms folded on the bottom of the window frame and head resting on top, face as understanding and compassionate as it always is.

"What's going on, boss?" Bucky raised his eyebrows. Sam shook his head and sighed. "I know there was something in that room besides what you reported." He left it there a moment, the beat of silence eating up the space between them.

"Look, man, I know it's hard working with spooks. We're neither of us comfortable with the cloak and dagger shit. Spec ops has got its secret side, but we don't lie for a living and being in bed with people who do... it keeps me up at night." He took a breath. "Don't let it infect you. You used to tell me everything." He stopped and gave a sharp glance at Bucky, a sly smile short lived on his lips. "Well, except for the whole 'my soulmate is the greatest soldier and all around most genuine guy ever in the world' thing."

Bucky huffed a short laugh and shook his head. "Steve's awake." Sam's eyes popped wide. "Somehow, they're controlling him."

"You suspect his abductors have used him to steal whatever Fury wants to keep from us."

Bucky nodded.

"Shit." There was a beat. "He's that man we saw."

"Yeah," Bucky sighed. He sniffed as his tears finally flooded over and down his cheeks. Embarrassment surged through him and he laughed weakly, swiping at his face. "Sorry," he mumbled from between his fingers, eyes clenched.

He heard the door click open and then shut, felt Sam settle into the seat and the other man's hand land comfortingly onto his shoulder. He squeezed firmly and rubbed the spot. "Hey, let it out. You're stressed beyond belief. I mean, I don't know anyone who has this problem with their soulmates - dead one moment, alive the next, kidnapped right after, and then mind controlled. I mean, I feel like I'm in a SyFy movie. I'm just waiting for the shark tornadoes."

Bucky cracked up through his tears. And he couldn't stop. He laughed and laughed, shoulders shaking as tears continued flowing. If his hilarity was a little (or a lot) hysterical, he was thankful to Sam for not mentioning it.

* * *

A captain Bucky'd met once years ago mentioned that he always had to live in new builds after he left the life because the creaks and clunks of an old house's soul always woke him up in the night, his gun in hand. But old houses settling into their bones still comforted Bucky. It gave him back a sense of home for his old homeless self. So it was that he almost mistook the thump for more settling. His eyes drooped down again, hot and burning from a crying jag that had lasted hours, when they suddenly snapped open. Settling didn't come from the roof.

After hopping out of bed and pulling on pants, combat boots and his thick sheepskin coat, Bucky made his way to the door. For a split second, he thought about grabbing his handgun, but disregarded it immediately. He knew who it was, who it had to be. His soul vibrated. Just like all the other times, though he was too agitated to realize.

There was a door at the end of the hall from his childhood room that lead up to a small landing with two doors. The one just to the left of the entrance to the attic lead to the roof. Once, there was a victory garden there, when his nana was a girl. She'd tend it lovingly each day, she always told Bucky fondly. Now, it was a derelict, half-realized rooftop deck, cheap plastic chairs around a cheap plastic table, stained with dirt and green with mildew. It was there, sitting in one of the chairs, that Bucky found the mysterious stranger in combat gear.

Bucky took a few slow steps forward, eyes drinking in everything he could see in the darkness. It wasn't much. His clothes were that dark navy that blended so well with the shadows of night and his face had a well groomed beard. Bucky shuddered to think of Steve's captor's touching his face, his hair, to keep him so well kept. He couldn't imagine Steve doing it himself.

Steve's eyes were obscured by the the shadow from an eave and it occurred to Bucky, suddenly, that this might be a trap. As skilled as Steve is, as stealthy as he is despite his huge body, he wouldn't have made a sound unless he wanted it to be heard. It's what Bucky would do. He was sitting there so calmly. Expectantly.

"Steve?" The word was nothing but a whisper on the breeze. If Steve had been anyone else, he wouldn't have heard it.

Steve's head tipped to the side, like a curious dog observing something that puzzled him. "Who are you?"

Bucky's heart stopped. His knees wobbled and he stumbled over to a chair, crumpling into it heavily. In the short time he'd considered what had happened to Steve, why he couldn't get out, he'd never imagined this. Grief crashed through him and he couldn't breath. White spots filled his vision and he curled into himself, biting his lip to hold in the sobs. He remained that way for a time, he didn't know how long, for infinity or for less than a second, when he felt a hand settle on the back of his head.   

Steve's hand moved awkwardly, like he didn't know what he was doing, but gently. Stroking comfortingly. Bucky glanced up, hope welling in his throat, but Steve wasn't there. There was none of the fondness or the familiar irritation, there wasn't the concerned wrinkled brow. But there was something. It glimmered in the back of Steve's eyes, as if from a cage, fighting to get out. It wasn't everything, but it was something, and it was enough.

Straightening, Bucky opened his mouth urgently, ready to cajole that spark to life once again, when Steve stiffened and dropped his hand. His head turned to the road and he looked down to the end. Bucky followed, but with his simple human vision, he couldn't see what had alarmed Steve. Before he could do or say anything, Steve sprung nimbly up from the deck to the eaves of the house. He paused, looked back once. It seemed, to Bucky, like he was drinking his fill. Then he leaped.

Even knowing the feats Captain America had done during World War II, Bucky panicked; because this was Steve, not some larger than life hero. He ran to the front of the house and looked over just in time to see Steve perform a perfect flip and land smoothly into a crouch onto the sidewalk. He cast a glance up the street again, then another - something almost like concern shaping his face - at Bucky, before he took off at a run in the opposite direction.

Bucky ducked below the ledge of his house, feeling ridiculously like Kilroy was here, and watched down the street. It took a while, time enough for the new year's cold chill to pervade his coat, when he finally spotted movement. A small cadre, dressed all in black and wielding guns like - as Trip would say - professional bad asses, stalked the street. They peeked into backyards and windows, scrambled up interesting looking sheds, and broke into basements. They were silent, deadly, and focused. Bucky was quite sure he wouldn't want to meet any one of them in a dark alley.

It didn't take a genius to figure out who they were looking for. Bucky hunkered down further. He flung his hand to the side, frantically searching for the little toy he'd left up here years ago and never remembered to pick up. He hoped it still worked. He glanced down quickly to confirm when his hand met ice cold metal, then looked back up, pulling the tiny pirate telescope into his lap.  

The street lights didn't reach up to the third floor of the house and there were no external security lights, so Bucky thankfully didn't have to wrap the telescope to keep it from glinting. He didn't have anything. He moved slowly, keeping as quiet as possible, and raised the glass.

Focusing took some doing. The telescope had corroded around each partition's edges, preventing it from extending fully. The glass was dull and fogged, leaving just a small circle to see through. He just needed enough to see an insignia, any identifying mark.

His heart pounded like a tattoo and his body shook from the cold. His hands were already dried out icicles, making it hard to hold the telescope steady. Below, the paramilitary unit continued silently on. They didn't seem to be interested in the houses or the occupants therein, much to Bucky's relief, so he stayed put. Interfering would endanger the whole street and not only would it get his neighborhood on every front page from here to the West coast, but it wouldn't get him Steve.

He peered cautiously through the lens, trying to minimize his movements so he didn't catch attention. A chill, the source of which was not the cold, raced down Bucky's spine as he watched them stalk the streets of a regular US city, unbeknownst to the sleeping homeowners. He wondered how many times this organization has haunted quiet night streets, only to have someone disappeared from their home the next day, forever leaving family and neighbors wondering.     

One of the troop stepped into a halo of light and Bucky zeroed in on his tac uniform. Small on the chest, above the heart, was a white 'FBI' insignia. Bucky deflated, hope at flushing out the enemy popping like a poked balloon. He turned to another person, this one with their back turned toward Bucky. The big, white 'FBI' label was there, too, and as far as Bucky could tell, it was authentic.

Just as he was about to retreat and stay hidden until they left, he spotted what looked like a water stain on the back of the vest. It was hard to see, no doubt purposely, but it seemed this organization could hardly resist branding their true colors onto their uniforms. Bucky knew it was just a matter of luck that he'd spotted it, it was so well hidden.

He squinted to try to make out the design and it looked like, "An octopus?" Something niggled in the back of his mind. The insignia seemed familiar, but he couldn't for the life of him think of any organizations who'd use an octopus as their mascot. He pulled back over the ledge and set the scope aside, slouching into his coat and fisting his hands deep into his pockets to warm them up. He didn't know how long it would take those prowlers to figure out Steve wasn't here, but he knew regardless that it would be a long night.

* * *

Sam eyed the drawing of the octopus critically. He turned it this way and that, squinting at it like that would make it any clearer. "Are you sure you saw an octopus? I mean, it was dark and the insignia was dark. Maybe one of his evil dude-bros peed on him as a prank right before they got called out?"

Bucky scrunched his nose and glared at Sam. "I don't even want to know why that would pop into your mind. But to answer your question, yes, I'm sure. I've seen it somewhere, too, I just can't think of where."

"But I mean, really, what evil organization says 'I think the octopus is the best creature to represent our evilness?"

Bucky wrapped his hands, still cold from last nights camp out, tighter around his cup of hot chocolate and shrugged. "Well, I've always thought they looked like evil motherfuckers."

Sam cast a scandalized glance at him. "They are cute and squishy and misunderstood!"

Bucky chuckled as Sam continued to mumble about octopuses being 'the super soldiers of the sea, motherfucker' and turned back to the letter he was writing Steve in one of his many notebooks. It was rambling about the Christmas he'd had with his family and the lackluster New Year's celebrations, about Sam, and the search, and his feelings. Really, it was all very maudlin and he'd probably rip it out before ever giving the journal to Steve, but it was great catharsis.

He was deeply involved with explaining the fascinating details of his war with the washing machine ('It keeps eating my socks, Steve!') when Coulson popped up beside him. Sam grunted and threw a crumpled up napkin at him while Bucky sighed and wrapped up his anecdote before closing and stashing the book away, batting at Coulson's grabby hands as he did.

Coulson glared about as well as his perpetually mild mannered face could and then shifted into business mode. "I can't stay long. We might have a hit on the tech that was stolen, which means recovering Captain America may very well be in sight, gentlemen. So what have you got?"

Bucky tossed a warning glance Sam's way as he handed over the sketch. Sam nodded once. Their silent communication was interrupted when Coulson cursed under his breath.

Sitting ramrod straight, Bucky asked aggressively, "Who are they?"

The color had drained from Coulson's face and Bucky's heart kicked up in speed. Sam sat forward in interest and prodded, "Well?"

Coulson glanced at them quickly, then whipped out his phone. As he dialed, he tossed out, "Hydra," and walked swiftly away, already barking into the phone.

Bucky's blood ran cold. He looked at Sam, alarmed, only to see the same expression fixed onto his friend's face as well. The moment stood still only for a heartbeat and then Bucky and Sam abandoned their seats to hurry after Coulson. 

* * *

Fury and Coulson had pinpointed the area where Hydra had hidden the Tesseract. And the fact that it was Hydra - a supposedly defunct Nazi Occult organization having hidden under SHIELD's very noses for 70 years, apparently - had finally convinced Fury that Bucky's unit did indeed need to know. Some of the details were familiar to Bucky, having taken US History in school like every other American kid, but others were mind boggling to say the least. Facts and figures and scary ass shit that the government decided the public didn't need to know - like the idea that Hydra managed to make weaponry _from the Tesseract_ that vaporized people on the spot. And now they had it back.

Bucky's cheek twitched as their quinjet was readied. He stood with arms crossed and feet apart, planted like an ancient tree impossible to move. He glared at Fury. His team stood behind him, just as firm, as Bucky barked, "And I'm guessing SHIELD was doing the same thing, having learned their lesson from history, of course."

Fury quirked a brow, infuriatingly immune to the Barnes Evil Eye, and crossed his own arms. "I don't have to answer to you, Barnes. As it is, however, this device is a ball of power, capable of ending war as we know it."

"Capable of ending war as we know it and turning it into something else altogether - something even more horrifying. FYI, if Hydra thought it was a good idea, it most definitely was not," Bucky bit off. The high pitched scream of the jet engines as they revved up stalled anything else Bucky would have said. Fury just shook his head and said something that looked like 'naive' to Bucky. He narrowed his eyes.

When the jet landed and let down the plank to board, Bucky stalked toward it. Before he disappeared inside, he ground out his parting shot. "Just wait until Steve's awake, aware, and safe. Try telling him that."

Famous last words, as they were. Bucky didn't even know what had happened. One moment, everything seemed to be going fine. They infiltrated from caverns beneath the base and did a perfect sweep. It seemed to be more of a science lab, like the SHIELD base the Tesseract had been stolen from, which made sense. It was night, again, so there were very few people. Those that were, were easily subdued - a few scientists, a handful of guards. It should have been a tip off, but Bucky's mind was set on one destination.

He was in a large warehouse-type room, exposed iron beams in the 50-foot ceiling, when Trip took a slug to the neck. Bucky jerked down behind one of the desks and watched as Sam and Carol followed suit. She waited a few seconds before diving toward Trip, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him behind to relative safety behind her desk.

Bucky signaled her to tend to Trip and then to Sam to circle around to the opposite corner for the vantage point. Keeping a low profile, Sam scuttled like a crab from desk to desk. Bucky darted up over his own desk and took a few shots in random directions, covering Sam's movements.

When a sharp, wet sting, followed by white hot pain flashed through the back of his left shoulder, Bucky knew it was all moot. He glanced down at the blood soaking into his uniform from behind, thinking it was all rather a lot for a basic gunshot wound. He heard Carol shout, "Shit, Sarge!" When he looked her way, she was upside down and at an odd angle, and _oh, that's because I'm lying down._

He could hear more rapid fire gunshots from Sam's location, but it was all fading out and he suddenly was too tired to care. There was shouting and movement and another, 'Oh, shit!' from Carol. Then the world exploded and Bucky knew no more. 

* * *

Coming to was an extremely painful experience for Bucky, but at least he was alive enough for a coming to. Bucky groaned and tried to think on that sentence a bit because something wasn't quite right about it, but he decided he didn't really care and closed his eyes again. It wasn't for long. A creak of metal resounded in the room, followed by heavy footsteps. Bucky's eyes snapped open and he turned his head quickly, vision swimming as the pain made a grand resurgence. He groaned again.

The man, short and fat and nondescript, dressed in a white lab coat, turned to him and smiled. "Ah, so we are awake, are we? Excellent."

His thick German accent wouldn't have been scary if Bucky hadn't been strapped down to a table, Bucky was sure. But despite the pain and fear, Bucky managed to conjure up some of his natural insouciance and said, "I don't know about 'we', but me is pretty sure he's dreaming. That, or in a pretty bad WWII movie. I mean."

Bucky shrugged. Through the pain, he felt something... off on his left side, like he thought there was more weight there than there was. He looked down. His eyes popped wide and, just barely remembering where he is, he tamped down on the scream that wanted to tear through his body. His left arm was a bloody stump at the shoulder. He jerked up, forgetting about the straps, and cried out when his right arm twinged. He turned that way and saw the bloody meat of his forearm. It was superficial, but he knew it would scar. He fell back, gasping, but finished with, "I mean, look at the shoddy prosthetics job."

The scientist laughed and shook his head. "You are quite dynamic, yes? This is too bad."

Bucky bit his lip and stared at the ceiling, debating on engaging any further. He cast a furtive glance at his left arm (well, side, since the arm was less arm these days) and nodded to himself. At least it would keep his mind off things.

"Where is my unit?"

The man continued to fiddle with stuff that Bucky couldn't - and didn't want - to see and hummed. "I do not know. Even had we been able to find them in the rubble of the explosion, we would not have brought them in. No, we only wanted you, Sergeant Barnes. You are most intriguing."

Bucky gritted his teeth. "Then why did you try to blow me to pieces?"

The man laughed. It sounded like a sputtering engine trying to catch. Bucky shivered. "We did no such thing, but accidents will happen when bullets are flying in a science lab, yes?"

Bucky breathed a deep, wavering breath, on the verge of tears. "Why'd you cut my arm off?"

"It needed amputation. Our asset was ordered to injure you. You moved just after his shot. The bullet hit at an angle that burrowed it into your arm, ravaging your muscles and tendons, effectively making your arm useless. Very little sensation was left. It would have been nothing more than a useless burden to you."

"So you cut it OFF?!" Bucky's shriek echoed in the room and he instinctively lunged forward, imaging his hands around the mad man's neck. The straps bit into his torso and remaining arm, though, sending shock waves of pain throughout his body. He hissed and slumped back down, winded.

Again, the man chuckled. "It would have quite gotten in the way, yes?"

Bucky clenched his jaw and breathed through the pain, cataloging his newly realized injuries: fractured ribs, with the possibility of a scraped lung; bone deep bruising on his chest and obliques, some superficial gashes and grazes. Once the pain had subsided, he turned once more to his captor.

"What have you done with Steve?"

Finally, the man looked up at Bucky, interest glinting in his eyes. "Do you see now why we have gone to the effort to capture you? Steve, you have said, not Captain America or even Captain Rogers, but Steve. Why is this, I ask? And why, I have also asked, has the asset gone rogue such a handful of times when the drug has been tested over decades and proven to work? More dosage for a super soldier, of course, but I had found the perfect amount while he was still sleeping."

The scientist stopped to take a breath and fiddle with some terrifying looking instruments on the side table, giving Bucky a chance to digest all that he'd been told. Steve was being controlled by a drug, but his connection to Bucky overruled it at times. Hydra knew something was up. He was screwed.

He cast his gaze around for anything that could be in reach, something sharp to cut his bonds. The only thing with that description were the tools laid out in front of the Hydra nut, who was turning to look at Bucky again. His smile was unhinged and his eyes, fever bright. Bucky suspected the guy thought that was normal.

"So you were stringing me along this whole time?"

"Oh, no. We did not find out about you until six weeks ago, when the asset once again went off the book. We found no trace of him and he was back where he should have been when our strike teams came back. What was interesting, however, was that the neighborhood was home to a certain Army sergeant who was on leave because of a Soul Severing and yet... some of his unit from the Rangers were on loan to SHIELD. Tch, tch, sergeant."

Bucky swallowed heavily, but he refused to look away from the maniac's eyes. "Why are you telling me all this if you're just going to kill me? Brushing up on your villain soliloquy for the D-list movie you're starring in?"

The man shook his head and once again chuckled. "You are a delight, sergeant, just a delight." He walked over to a sink in the corner and turned on the tap. He lathered his hands slowly, methodically. Terror settled deep into Bucky's gut.

"I tell you this because you are curious and, admittedly, I do like to talk. You deserve to know, since you are an integral part in everything now - the soulmate of Captain America. It is quite romantic, the idea of your story, if I can say so myself. You gleaned, did you not? No need to answer, I already know you must have."

The man shut off the water and turned back toward Bucky, wringing a towel through his fingers as he did. His smile widened when he noticed Bucky eyeing the instruments he could now see clearer. "Do not worry, sergeant. These are not for you. Not yet, at least. We must clean these wounds you have. I apologize I have not gotten to them sooner, but your left arm was quite the priority. Now, relax."

As he said this, the scientist (Bucky can't, all told, call him a doctor) picked up a pair of forceps and a bottle of antiseptic and approached Bucky's right side. "This may sting." And then he poured. Bucky screamed so loudly he tore his throat, blood sliding down his trachea and clogging his airway. The molten heat was more than he could handle and twice in however many days, Bucky passed out.     

* * *

A wet ticklish feeling was what woke Bucky, but he really rather would have stayed dead. His whole body throbbed. He was so sensitive, he could feel his hair follicles. The wet tickle ran across his forehead again, followed by a nice, cool sensation. Bucky moaned and shifted further into the feel, but at his sound, the movement stopped.

Whimpering, Bucky snapped his eyes open. He gasped. For the first time in his life, he was seeing Steve with nothing between them. No veiled glean, no darkness, just Steve. Bucky started to smile until he saw the blankness in Steve's eyes. The blue, instead of vibrant and glowing with Steve's fighting spirit, was flat and dull. Bucky never thought Steve's eyes could ever be not be beautiful, but there they were. It only took a little mind control to do it.

"Steve?" His voice, raw from screaming, came out a whisper. Steve cocked his head to the side, the only hint that he was curious.

"You keep calling me that. Why?"

Bucky drew in a shaky breath around the tears clogging his throat. "It's your name." Despite Bucky's efforts, a tear fell from his eye, sliding down his temple and into his hair. Steve tracked it with his eyes, a curious expression shaping his face. He lifted his hand and gently swiped his thumb over the wetness, following its path. Bucky hiccuped. "Steve."

Steve opened his mouth, a look in his eye just on the verge of a revelation, when the scientist stormed in, swinging something in his hand, and barked, "Soldier!" He swung his hand up and Bucky saw it was a small tranquilizer gun. The scientist pulled the trigger and a dart shot out, hitting Steve with a dose of whatever the scientist had bragged about that was controlling his mind.  

Steve immediately snapped to attention. His eyes went flat and cold and his body went still. Bucky watched in mounting horror as the drug seized full control of Steve in next to no time. The scientist cast Bucky a smug glance before ordering, "Go back to your cell."

Steve turned, executing a military perfect about face, and strode out of the room without even a look back. Bucky's nostrils flared as anger surged through him, subsuming his pain and fear. Steve doesn't blindly follow orders. When he got out of here, Bucky was going to bash some skulls. He glared as the scientist turned to beam at him, pleased with himself.

"Oh, come now, Sergeant. No need to worry. You'll be with your captain soon enough." He winked at Bucky and Bucky's skin crawled. "He keeps breaking control, but you know that very well. Fortunately, Hydra has been studying ways of manipulating the bond between soulmates and you, dear sergeant, will be our first recipient."

Cold stole through Bucky's body and his lungs seized. He didn't have a lot that he cared for. Personal possessions amounted to a closet full of clothes, his motorcycle, and his journals. The most important thing, though, was his bond with Steve. The idea that someone had been finding ways to control that, that he was their target, that this thing in a man-suit was going to put his sticky little piggy fingers all over his bond, terrified Bucky to his bones.  

The shaking started and got worse when the scientist approached. This just made the leer on the man's face widen and he lifted a needle. "Just relax, Sergeant Barnes. This won't hurt a bit." The needle slid smoothly ( _like butter_ , his mind whispered) into the upper part of Bucky's left shoulder, what was left after the amputation.

Almost immediately, the room became hazy. Bucky's limbs became heavy and his mouth went numb. He opened it, or thought he opened it, to scream or rage, but no sound came out. His eyes started to droop and his head flopped to the side. He saw nothing but the pocket of a lab coat. As his consciousness fled, his ears filled with the sound of jovial humming. The last thought in his mind was, _I'm_   _gonna enjoy killing this fucker_. 

* * *

He faded in and out for hours, he was sure. He thought he saw Steve standing in the corner of the room once, stone faced one moment, but confused conflict dawning on his face the next. He faded out to the bark of command for the soldier to go back into his unit.

His body was a mass of pain; nothing but throbbing nerve endings and lava in his blood. He was hot. His hair, when it flopped into his eyes, was lank and sweaty. It felt like he was breathing under water. In his lowest points, and, Bucky acknowledged, they were all pretty much his lowest point, he was terrified he'd die. Terrified he'd leave this world and leave Steve to be the puppet of a mad man.

Eventually, full cognizance dawned on Bucky. He breathed deeply and felt a nose full of snot; from crying, from the drugs, from the cold. His eyes welled with fresh tears. He was exhausted - physically, mentally, emotionally. Steve had always been the strong one.

Bucky let out a deep wail when he managed to move his head to the left and saw, in place of flesh and blood, a metal thing that twitched and moved. He knew, oh how he knew logically that it is his brain impulses that are controlling it, but he can't connect. He just... can't comprehend. He is so tired. 

"Does not compute," he muttered, eyes staring wide and glassy at the science fiction horror grafted with impressive surgical precision to his shoulder. It gleamed dully in the sickly light filtering down into the new dank cell they'd rolled him into after the surgery.  

He's fairly sure he's going to die here. They're going to scoop out his soul piece by piece and set up their Soldier inside his heart. Who will save Steve then?

Tears fell in fat drops down his cheekbones and mingled with his hair, half wild and grimy with blood and spit and more tears already. He heaved brokenly, wetly, and turned away from the blatant sign of ownership on his side. The opposite direction wasn't any better, though. His right arm was cut up from his elbow to the top of his hand. If he was more aware, he'd think the pattern looked somewhat different from his original wounds. As it was, all he could think was that it looked like it had been passed through a meat grinder. It didn't really make sense; he'd thought the Hydra goon had been fixing it.

Bucky turned his eyes to his new ceiling, where cracks radiated outward, traced almost lovingly by water droplets from an underground water source this building must have interrupted, ending in the middle and plopping onto his face. It helped a chill settle into the air, pimpling Bucky's bare torso and setting a deep throbbing ache into his shoulder, where flesh met metal. It cooled the hot tears on his face and his sobs trickled off to an occasional broken sniffle.

He was going to die here. He was going to die on this medical bed, in a broken and cracked cement room, with nothing on but that metal thing where his arm should be and his black combat pants. He was going to die in this place, where his soulmate had done so already, soul scooped out like ice cream. He was going to die in this place, with the man he loved right next door and quite unaware, as dead as Bucky was about to be. 

He closed his eyes and forced a deep breath, then another. All his attention was focused on giving a brutal beat down to the bubbling well of hysteria lodged in his chest that he didn't notice when the heavy metal door swung open. He breathed evenly, deeply, centering himself like Becca had forced him to learn during their meditation sessions. He would have to apologize to her, if he survived, because that shit totally does work.

The buckles on his newly installed arm rattled and Bucky snapped open his eyes, slightly crazed with panic.

The demon woman's red lips smiled, but her eyes were hard, calculating. "Hey, there soldier. Up and at 'em."

Bucky took a deep breath, his mind turning cogs slowly. It finally reached a conclusion as the woman moved to his other side and started on that strap. "You're... Rochenka? SHIELD's assassin."

Red raised an eyebrow. "Romanova. Romanov to you American philistines."     

She patted his flesh wrist. The feel of her cool hand instead of metal was like ice water in the desert. Bucky hopped off the gurney quickly and the world spun. He lurched sideways and grabbed his head, the world blurring together like he was on one of those spinning rides at Six Flags. He felt hands around his waist, holding him up, and a husky, "Whoa, there, cowboy."

Bucky grunted and shook Romanov off. He took a few deep breaths and straightened slowly. When he turned to look at his rescuer, she tossed him a judgmental look. With a shrug, Bucky murmured, "I've had quite enough of strangers pawing at me, thanks."

Romanov held up her hands in surrender and gestured to the door with her head. "Time to scoot, Sarge. This popsicle stand is going to blow any minute." With that, she turned and sprinted out the door.

Bucky's eyes widened and he thought, _Steve._ He followed at a slightly slower speed, his sluggish mind trying to recall if he'd been awake when they'd moved him, if he could retrace his steps to find Steve's cell or unit (and Bucky was sure those two were separate things, but still in the vicinity of each other). He came up blank and the panic started to set in again. He ruthlessly tamped it down, clearing his head like he did on all his missions. He'd just have to tell Romanov to abort the bomb so they could find and fetch Steve, that was all.

He rounded the corner the agent had disappeared behind and nearly slammed into her back. She was stock still, gun out and aimed at Steve, who had his shield raised in front of him.

Bucky gasped. "No, wait! What are you doing?" He surged forward and reached to shove the nose of Romanov's gun down. She neatly sidestepped him in what Bucky thought may have been a move perfected in ballet class, gun resolutely pointing at Steve; his head this time. Her finger started depressing the trigger and Bucky, scared and furious, jumped in front of Steve, arms spread like he could cover all of Steve's massive body and protect it with his own.

He snarled at Romanov and she recoiled slightly, fear flashing in her eyes. Bucky wondered what sort of look he had on his face to incite that reaction before dismissing it as he watched Romanov recover herself. Her face went placid as a glass lake and her eyes looked at Bucky like he was a child. Bucky bared his teeth.

"Move, Barnes."

"No. What the hell? Our mission was to recover him!"

Romanov tilted her head. Bucky couldn't help but think she looked a little bored. "Your mission. Mine is a horse of a different color."

Bucky backed up into the cold, hard weight of the shield. "I won't let you shoot him." He slung his arm backward, hand blindly searching for the gun he'd seen strapped to Steve's hip. He didn't want to shoot her, but she was giving him no choice.

She sighed and shook her head, a small look like pity covering her face. "I am aware of the significance of Captain America to Americans, Barnes. But he has been compromised. SHIELD can't let a super soldier loose with someone else pulling his strings." She gestured with her gun.

Bucky's fingers finally felt the hard grip of the gun and he swiftly unholstered and pointed it at Romanov. Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. "I can't, I won't, let you harm him." His voice sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before and it seemed Romanov agreed.

She swallowed once before shoving blank disinterest onto her face. "I won't tell you again. Move. Or I will shoot through you." 

Bucky smirked, dark amusement flashing through him. "You may be the best damn spy this world's ever seen. I really don't know, but you work for SHIELD and I've seen some of your work. It's good. But there's a reason the Army gives me the jobs they do and don't ask for a loaner from SHIELD. I'm a better and faster shot than you. So lady, if you don't put that gun down, I'll make ya."

Romanov's features hardened along with her resolve, even as she glanced quickly at Bucky's grip on his gun. Then, she glanced at the watch on her wrist. Probably estimating how much time they had before they were all torn to smithereens, Bucky'd guess.

"Barnes, I'm sorry. I really am. But we don't have time!" She jerked her gun up, but didn't get any further than that. Bucky took his shot, grazing Romanov in the meaty bit of her palm below her thumb. Superficial, but damn painful. She cried out and dropped her weapon, but executed a perfect drop and upward kick, knocking Bucky's gun out of his hands. Then she swept her leg around and took Bucky's legs out from under him.

His fall was stopped before it even really started by a pair of large hands grasping his elbows. Bucky's heart skipped, but for an entirely different reason this time. He glanced up into Steve's face, expecting Steve to be there. There was nothing but the ubiquitous confusion, and Bucky's heart would have sunk - just a little - if there wasn't also a small glimmer of familiarity in his eyes.

Steve stared back for a moment, then turned his attention to Romanov, shooting his shield out quick as a snake to shatter her gun even as she reached for it. She froze, watching as the shield bounced back into Steve's grip.

Swallowing, she stated, "Barnes, you've put us all in danger." She eyed the hand still on Bucky's elbow.

Bucky snorted. "You realize he could have killed me or taken me hostage at any time the moment I stood in front of him, right? He didn't." Bucky gently pulled his arm forward and Steve's hand fell to his side.

Romanov watched stoically. Then she assessed Bucky's stance, the way he leaned back into Steve and the way Steve, for reasons unknown to himself, seemed to gravitate toward Bucky. Her eyes slowly rounded in realization.

"He's your soulmate."

Bucky nodded.

Romanov slowly got to her feet. Steve tensed and she quickly raised her hands, one sluggishly pulsing out blood, in surrender. She looked at her watch again. When she turned back to Bucky and Steve, her face was a mask once more. "Fine. Let's go. You have to play sheepherder, though, Barnes. If you can get him to come, he can come. If he can't, well, that decisions all on you." 

* * *

To say getting Steve to leave the Hydra base, and go in the right direction, was hard was like saying the tundra was cold. There seemed to be triggers embedded deep into Steve's mind that directed his actions. But Bucky had gotten him onto the quinjet and then docilely into SHIELD headquarters.

Steve was currently sitting like a rock in a cell that seemed to be designed with super soldiers in mind. And it wasn't new. Ire spiked in Bucky at the thought, but he shelved _that_ discussion for another time, preferably when he wasn't being chewed out by Fury.

"You should have revealed your connection at the outset, Barnes," Fury snarled.

Bucky arched a brow. "Why, exactly?"

"So I didn't send a compromised agent into the field."

Bucky's brow went higher. "I brought him in, didn't I, alive and unharmed, as was my mission? I figured I was the best candidate in the world to do that. Seems to me that wasn't your plan, though." Bucky's eyes, he was sure, could melt metal.

Fury stared back unrepentantly. "Rogers is compromised. And nearly unstoppable."

"Well, when did you even decide that? Far as I know, you didn't know anything about Steve or that Hydra base. Say, how did you find me anyway?" Bucky's tone was soft, sibilant. His subordinates knew to back off when that tone came out. But this was Fury. Bucky just hoped it would shame him enough to answer truthfully and, perhaps, contritely. He wouldn't hold his breath.

Fury's jaw ticked for a moment. Then he sagged and sighed, rubbing his one eye. "We suspected that might be the case when you and your team retrieved those old papers from the base in Poland. There were details on Hydra experimenting with a drug called Scopolamine that--"

Bucky exclaimed, "Is that the drug that some hookers in South American countries give to their johns to get them to give them all their money and cars and such and then they don't remember anything in the morning?"

Fury bit his tongue, probably in an effort to refrain from scolding Bucky for interrupting, and nodded. "Hydra refined and enhanced it in a process our scientists are still trying to figure out, seemingly in preparation for Rogers. The effects seem permanent. None of Hydra's test subjects seem to have recovered their memories." Fury let pity cross his face. "I'm sorry, Barnes."

"So you jumped to the conclusion--"

"The right one."

Bucky went on, unconcerned. "That Steve was compromised based solely on decades old papers?"

"And the information gathered at Fort Michaels. A hole in the wall that looked like it had been punched in." Fury stared pointedly at Bucky.

Bucky shrugged. "If you expect me to feel guilty for wanting to keep quiet, you're in for a long wait. So there's that. Now how about you tell me about the super soldier-proof cell you've got Steve in?"

Fury let out a put upon groan. "Believe it or not, Barnes, SHIELD isn't the enemy. That cell is for someone bigger and stronger than Captain Rogers and that's all I'll say on the matter."

Bucky squinted, assessing Fury for truthfulness, but Fury was a human Fort Knox. He decided he had other battles to fight and shrugged, dropping the matter. "How do you mean, Hydra was preparing for Steve? He's only just been found this year."

Fury shifted in what Bucky surmised was discomfort. "It seems Hydra hadn't actually infiltrated SHIELD." Bucky's mouth opened in shock. "In '45, when Rogers and his team took down the last major Hydra base, some communications officers escaped. These officers had the GPS coordinates of where the Valkyrie was going. They were able to extrapolate out where the plane went down. Seems they already guessed that Rogers would have survived the cold and prepared accordingly. SHIELD was just lucky in that an oil survey team found the plane first."

"So instead, they pulled a heist," Bucky murmured. Fury nodded. "How did you find me?"

"Wilson."

Bucky's heart leaped.

"He was the least injured of your unit and still conscious. He had a hell of a head wound, but he managed to plant his cell in the pack of one of the Hydra agents sent to retrieve you."

Bucky released a long, hard sigh and felt his entire body deflate. The tension just oozed out of him. He had Steve, however messed in the head at the moment, back and his team was fine. He nodded once, then stood creakily. His left shoulder throbbed, reminding him of his own hell. But being a cyborg? Not so bad now that everyone got out alive.

Fury watched him knowingly. "Go see your team, apologize to Agent Romanov for putting her off missions for a few weeks, and then get some sleep, sergeant."

"I will, not gonna happen she totally started it, and nope, not until I see Steve."

Fury took a fortifying breath and set his shoulders, readying, it seemed, for a fight. "Barnes, I know you want to think you can save him, but Hydra has been perfecting ways to brainwash Rogers for decades. They've had him for months, time enough to set up a sturdy infrastructure of their ideology and goals. With the added help of mind altering drugs, it's more probable that his memories, if not his mind, are gone."

Bucky scowled. "Would you be as quick to give up on your soulmate?" He was met with silence. "Hydra only had months with Steve. I've had a lifetime. I've been laying down bricks, building a solid foundation between us since we were five. What Hydra did was build a house of cards on solid, unshakable bedrock."

Piece said, Bucky turned on his heel and stormed out. His anger carried him to the hospital ward and had him ushered, swiftly and a little nervously, into the room of the only awake member of his team.

Carol looked up, bruised eyes giving her a distinct raccoon look, and smiled lopsidedly. She winced when the new skin on her torn lips pulled at the motion.

"You look like you're about to blow, Sarge."

Bucky huffed and smiled, then threw himself tiredly into the seat by her bed. "I had a tussle with Fury. I'll tell ya later, yeah?"

Carol laughed. "Your Brooklyn comes out to play when you're exhausted, Sarge."

"Shuddup!'

She laughed again and it was music to Bucky's ears; better than her screams that still echoed in his mind.

Carol's boney finger poked Bucky sharply in the armpit and he jumped, gaze focusing back in on her. "Hey, none of that. We're all fine. I heard you wrangled your Steve back home. Things can only get better."

Bucky smiled, genuine and sweet, and he reached over to squeeze Carol's hand, rubbing his thumb along the top. It was one of the few times he'd ever shown such affection to her and Carol's face twitched. Then she grimaced and threw Bucky's hand off of her. "None of that emotional bunk, Sarge. I can't handle it."

Bucky tossed his head back and let loose with the freest laugh he'd had in ages. When he calmed down, he looked at her smarmy face and said, "You're more bro than the bros down at that sports bar, Danvers."  

She cocked her head. "Which one?"

"Like, all of them."

A pleased smile spread over her face as she settled back into her bed and lifted her romance novel back up to read. "Sweet."

Bucky looked at the cover of the novel - a shirtless man and woman whose bosom was nearly falling out of her top - and snorted. Right. 

* * *

Bucky and Steve stared across the table at each other, a concession that Fury was reluctant to make. Surprisingly, the devil woman had seconded his request, followed by Coulson (who Bucky was sure was in Fury's dog house, too) and a woman named Hill who seemed to be Fury's second. So here they were, on opposite sides of a table.

It was silent as a grave inside the room. Bucky briefly wondered if that was for the benefit of the occupant this room was made for or just incidental. Steve was still, but he looked at Bucky with a sort of openness. It gave Bucky hope even while it hurt him to see that expressive face lax, empty of recognition.

He knew Fury and the others were on the other side of a monitor. He could see the cameras blinking in the corners. It helped his nerves a bit that his team was there, too, but the idea still made him itch. He'd rather engage in personal matters without an audience, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Bucky leaned forward and reached across the table, dropping two small metal pieces in front of Steve. Steve's head didn't budge, but his eyes followed first Bucky's movements and then the fall of the objects onto the table. Seconds passed as Steve stared down at them. Then he tilted his head and reached for one.

He brought the ring to his face and examined the top, running his thumb delicately over the design. Bucky took a deep breath and started speaking. "You remember that, don't ya, pal?" And Carol was right, in the right circumstances, his Brooklyn shone. But Bucky figured the familiar drawl would help. "You designed it, our own little love knot."

Steve's eyes jumped to Bucky's face then back to the ring. He traced the design again. Bucky leaned forward. "Remember? You first started to draw it on my palm when we were kids, oh, 13 or 14 years old." Steve drew in a quick breath. Bucky tamped down his excitement. "I had 'em made into rings. I wanted to surprise ya when we finally met in person." Bucky chuckled. "Though I suppose you'll have to wear yours on your pinky 'til we get you another one made, eh, punk?"

Steve jolted a little at that and he glanced up at Bucky again. His fringe hung over his forehead and obscured his eyes, and it was such a familiar demure look that Bucky nearly fainted in relief. The glimmer was getting stronger.

"I thought... we could wear 'em secret like, cause it wasn't allowed?"

Steve's voice, halting and rough as it was, was music to Bucky's ears. A peal of laughter burst out of Bucky, jarring Steve back a little and putting a dopey look of surprise on his face. Bucky worked to restrain his joy and, when his laughing had petered out, said, "Yeah, pal. I didn't know why for the longest time, though."

Steve looked down at the ring. He turned it around and slipped it as far as it would go onto his left ring finger. It stopped quite a ways above his first knuckle. Bucky smiled even as he twitched his own left ring finger. He didn't know if his own ring would fit, either.

Steve reached down for the other ring and then reached for Bucky's metal arm. He tried not to jerk back, not wanting Steve to feel the dead weight at his side, and watched with bated breath as Steve gently slipped the ring onto his own ring finger. It was snug, but it went down all the way.

Bucky's throat clogged with tears. He was unaware that they had fallen until Steve reached over and gently swiped away a drop. His eyes strayed to Bucky's mechanical arm and a dawning horror filled them.

"I shot you."

Bucky smiled. He reached for Steve's hands and gripped them tight. "Yeah, pal. But it ain't your fault."

Steve watched him for a moment. Then he asked again, "Who are we?"

Bucky got up and went to the other side of the table. He knelt next to Steve and said, "Let's find out." 

* * *

Sam watched as Bucky seemingly shattered any and all programming Hydra had built into Steve's mind and he smiled. He turned to Fury. "Seems it's working."

Fury nodded, while Agent Romanov stated, "It won't be that easy. He'll have to square with what he was made to do."

Sam nodded. Trip muttered, "Yeah. But he's got Sarge."

Carol hummed. "What now? Did you get the blue box thing?"

Coulson looked straight ahead. "Hydra got away with it, though quite a few operatives were taken out in the blast."

"Are we going after it?"

Fury shook his head negatively. "We've got enough on our plate, don't you think?" He gestured at Barnes and Rogers pressed close together as Barnes murmured memories in Rogers' ear. "That is an adventure best left for another day."  


End file.
